LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


THE  BORZOI  1920 


Being  a  sort  of  record 
of  five  years9  publishing 


New  York 

ALFRED- A -KNOPF 
1920 

LIBRARY 

*  )F  CALIFORNIA 


COPYRIGHT,  1920,  BY 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF,  INC. 


FEINTED   IN    THE    UNITED    STATES    OT   AMERICA 


FOREWORD 

Many  readers  have  doubtless  long  been  familiar  with  the 
catalogs  issued  now  and  again  by  European  publishers  —  no 
bare  lists  of  authors  and  titles,  but  such  wholly  charming  pro 
ductions  as,  for  example,  the  annual  almanacks  of  the  Insel- 
Verlag  of  Leipzig.  As  I  approached  the  conclusion  of  my  first 
five  years'  publishing  it  seemed  to  me  —  in  view  of  the  uncom 
mon  friendliness  of  so  many  readers  —  that  they,  at  any  rate, 
would  perhaps  receive  with  favor  a  more  permanent  record  of 
the  early  activities  of  the  Borzoi  than  it  would  be  possible  to 
present  in  the  usual  sort  of  American  publisher's  announce 
ment.  Authors  —  may  I  say  my  authors? — greeted  the  idea 
with  such  enthusiasm  (how  generous  their  cooperation  the  fol 
lowing  pages  abundantly  testify)  that  it  soon  took  fairly  defi 
nite  shape.  The  original  papers  are  of  course  the  real  excuse 
for  The  Borzoi  1920,  while  the  balance  of  the  book  is 
intended  simply  to  be  useful  —  to  the  individual  reader,  the 
bookseller,  and  the  librarian.  I  have  tried  to  make  the  bibliog 
raphy  complete,  but  the  Who's  Who  is  confined  to  writers  who 
are,  I  hope,  more  or  less  definitely  associated  with  my  list 
(and  from  whom  I  could  get  the  necessary  information) . 

My  best  thanks  are  due  many  for  whatever  success  Borzoi 
Books  may  have  achieved.  Those,  first,  who  wrote  them,  and 
especially  the  generous  contributors  to  this  volume;  the  book 
sellers,  who  have  been  both  friendly  and  intelligent  in  their 
cooperation;  the  critics  who  have  been  for  the  most  part  both 
understanding  and  encouraging;  the  loyal  co-workers  in  my 
own  office;  and  last,  but  not  least,  the  readers  who  have  made 
the  whole  venture  possible. 

ALFRED  A.  KNOPF. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Introduction  Maxim  Gorky      ix 


PART  ONE 

WRITTEN   ESPECIALLY   FOR   THE   BORZOI    1920  I 

The  Movies                                                    Claude  Bragdon  3 

Maxwell  Bodenheim                                         Witter  Bynner  6 

On  the  Art  of  Fiction                                       Willa  Gather  7 

Astonishing  Psychic  Experience              Clarence  Day,  Jr.  9 

Max  Beerbohm                                                      Floyd  Dell  12 

Joseph  Hergesheimer                                       Wilson  Follett  15 

On  Drawing                                                       A.  P.  Herbert  20 
A  Note  on  the  Chinese  Poems  translated  by  Arthur  Waley 

Joseph  Hergesheimer  24 

Willa  Gather                                                    H.  L.  Mencken  28 

Van  Vechten                                                     Philip  Moeller  32 

On  H.  L.  Mencken                               George  Jean  Nathan  34 

A  Sketch                                                    Sidney  L.  Nyburg  37 

Chant  of  the  Nurses                                      Eunice  Tietjens  41 

A  Memory  of  Ypres                                 H.  M.  Tomlinson  42 
On  the  Advantages  of  Being  Born  on  the  Seventeenth  of 

June                                                         Carl  Van  Vechten  48 

The  Master  of  the  Five  Willows                   Arthur  Waley  52 
PART  TWO 

A  BRIEF  WHO'S  WHO  OF  WRITERS  PARTICULARLY  IDENTIFIED 

WITH   THE   BORZOI  53 


CONTENTS 
PART  THREE 

PAGE 

SELECTED   PASSAGES   FROM   BORZOI   BOOKS  63 

How  He  Died                                                   Conrad  Aiken  65 

From  "  Youth  and  Egolatry  "                             Pio  Baroja  68 

From  "  The  Romantic  Woman  "                    Mary  Borden  71 

October                                                              Robert  Bridges  74 

"  Letters  of  a  Javanese  Princess  "             Louis  Couperus  75 

April  Charms                                          William  H.  Davies  79 
A  page  from  "  The  Three  Mulla  Mulgars  " 

Walter  de  la  Mare  80 
Burbank  with  a  Baedeker;  Bleistein  with  a  Cigar 

T.  8.  Eliot  81 

From  "  Where  Angels  Fear  to  Tread  "          E.  M.  Forster  83 

Dorothy  Easton's  "  The  Golden  Bird  "    John  Galsworthy  86 

War  and  the  Small  Nations                             Kahlil  Gibran  88 

A  First  Review                                                 Robert  Graves  89 

Joe  Ward                                                            E.  W.  Howe  90 

Doc  Robinson                                                     E.  W.  Howe  91 

John  Davis                                                          E.  W.  Howe  92 

Concerning  "  A  Little  Boy  Lost  "               W.  H.  Hudson  93 

Ancient  Music                                                       Ezra  Pound  96 

Fire  and  the  Heart  of  Man                                 /.  C.  Squire  97 

Preface  to  "  Deliverance  "                     E.  L.  Grant  Watson  101 

PART  FOUR 

A  BIBLIOGRAPHY  OF  ALL  BORZOI  BOOKS  FROM  25  SEPTEMBER 

1915  TO  25  SEPTEMBER  1920  103 

Postscript  133 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

A  Page  from  the  Manuscript  of  Max  Beerbohm's  "  Seven 
Men "  Frontispiece 

FACING   PAGE 

Witter  Bynner  6 

Floyd  Dell  12 

Clarence  Day,  Jr.  12 

Joseph  Hergesheimer  15 

Sidney  L.  Nyburg  28 

Willa  Gather  28 

Carl  Van  Vechten  32 

H.  L.  Mencken  34 

George  Jean  Nathan  34 

Eunice  Tietjens  41 

Pio  Baroja  41 

Mary  Borden  72 

Kahlil  Gibran  89 

Robert  Graves  90 

J.  C.  Squire  90 

E.  L.  Grant  Watson  102 


INTRODUCTION 

[The  following  —  reprinted  from  the  Athenaeum  (London)  of  June 
llth,  1920,  and  translated  by  S.  Kotliansky  is  part  of  Gorky's  preface 
to  the  first  catalogue  of  "  World  Literature,"  the  publishing  house 
founded  by  him  under  the  auspices  of  the  Bolshevik  government.  It  is 
reprinted  here  as  a  plea,  as  noble  as  it  is  typical  of  Gorky,  for  good 
books. 

A.  A.  K.] 

Is  it  necessary  to  speak  of  the  necessity  of  a  serious  study 
of  literature,  or  at  least  of  a  wide  acquaintance  with  it?  Liter 
ature  is  the  heart  of  the  world,  winged  with  all  its  joys  and 
sorrows,  with  all  the  dreams  and  hopes  of  men,  with  their 
despair  and  wrath,  with  their  reverence  before  the  beauty  of 
nature,  their  fears  in  face  of  her  mysteries.  This  heart  throbs 
violently  and  eternally  with  the  thirst  of  self-knowledge,  as 
though  in  it  all  those  substances  and  forces  of  nature  that 
have  created  the  human  personality  as  the  highest  expression 
of  their  complexity  and  wisdom  aspired  to  clarify  the  meaning 
and  aim  of  life. 

Literature  may  also  be  called  the  all-seeing  eye  of  the  world, 
whose  glance  penetrates  into  the  deepest  recesses  of  the  human 
spirit.  A  book  —  so  simple  a  thing  and  so  familiar  —  is, 
essentially,  one  of  the  great  and  mysterious  wonders  of  the 
world.  Some  one  unknown  to  us,  sometimes  speaking  an  in 
comprehensible  language,  hundreds  of  miles  away,  has  drawn 
on  paper  various  combinations  of  a  score  or  so  of  signs,  which 
we  call  letters,  and  when  we  look  at  them,  we  strangers,  remote 
from  the  creator  of  the  book,  mysteriously  perceive  the  mean 
ing  of  all  the  words,  the  ideas,  the  feelings,  the  images;  we 
admire  the  description  of  the  scenes  of  nature,  take  delight 
in  the  beautiful  rhythm  of  speech,  the  music  of  the  words. 
Moved  to  tears,  angry,  dreaming,  sometimes  laughing  over 

ix 


x  INTRODUCTION 

the  motley  printed  sheets,  \ve  grasp  the  life  of  the  spirit,  akin 
or  foreign  to  ourselves.  The  book  is,  perhaps,  the  most  com 
plicated  and  mightiest  of  all  the  miracles  created  by  man  on 
his  path  to  the  happiness  and  power  of  the  future. 

There  is  no  one  universal  literature,  for  there  is  yet  no 
language  common  to  all,  but  all  literary  creation,  in  prose 
and  poetry,  is  saturated  with  the  unity  of  feelings,  thoughts, 
ideals  shared  by  all  men,  with  the  unity  of  man's  sacred  aspi 
ration  towards  the  joy  of  the  freedom  of  the  spirit,  with  the 
unity  of  man's  disgust  at  the  miseries  of  life,  the  unity  of  his 
hopes  of  the  possibility  of  higher  forms  of  life,  and  with  the 
universal  thirst  for  something  indefinable  in  word  or  thought, 
hardly  to  be  grasped  by  feeling,  that  mysterious  something 
to  which  we  give  the  pale  name  of  beauty,  and  which  comes  to 
an  ever  brighter  and  more  joyous  flower  in  the  world,  in  our 
own  hearts. 

Whatever  may  be  the  inward  differences  of  nations,  races, 
individualities,  however  distinct  may  be  the  external  forms 
of  states,  religious  conceptions  and  customs,  however  irrecon 
cilable  the  conflict  of  classes  —  over  all  these  differences, 
created  by  ourselves  through  centuries,  hovers  the  dark  and 
menacing  spectre  of  the  universal  consciousness  of  the  tragic 
quality  of  life  and  the  poignant  sense  of  the  loneliness  of  man 
in  the  world. 

Rising  from  the  mystery  of  birth,  we  plunge  into  the  mystery 
of  death.  Together  with  our  planet  we  have  been  thrown 
into  incomprehensible  space.  We  call  it  the  Universe,  but  we 
have  no  precise  conception  of  it,  and  our  loneliness  in  it  has 
such  an  ironical  perfection  that  we  have  nothing  with  which 
to  compare  it. 

The  loneliness  of  man  in  the  Universe  and  on  the  earth, 
which  is  to  many  "  a  desert,  alas !  not  unpeopled  "  —  on  earth 
amid  the  most  tormenting  contradiction  of  desires  and  possi 
bilities  —  is  realized  only  by  few.  But  the  faint  feeling  of  it 


INTRODUCTION  » 

is  implanted  in  the  instinct  of  nearly  every  man  like  a  noxious 
weed,  and  it  often  poisons  the  lives  of  men  who  appear  to  be 
perfectly  immune  from  that  murderous  nostalgia  which  is 
the  same  for  all  ages  and  peoples,  which  tormented  equally 
Byron  the  Englishman,  Leopardi  the  Italian,  the  writer  of 
"  Ecclesiastes,"  and  Lao-Tse,  the  great  sage  of  Asia. 

This  anguish  that  arises  from  the  dim  sense  of  the  precarious- 
ness  and  tragedy  of  life  is  common  to  great  and  small,  to 
every  one  who  has  the  courage  to  look  at  life  with  open  eyes. 
And  if  a  time  is  to  come  when  men  will  have  overcome  this 
anguish  and  stifled  in  themselves  the  consciousness  of  tragedy 
and  loneliness,  they  will  achieve  that  victory  only  by  the  way 
of  spiritual  creation,  only  by  the  combined  efforts  of  literature 
and  science. 

Besides  its  envelope  of  air  and  light  all  our  earth  is  sur 
rounded  with  a  sphere  of  spiritual  creativeness,  with  the  mul 
tifarious  rainbow  emanation  of  our  energy,  out  of  which  is 
woven,  forged  or  moulded  all  that  is  immortally  beautiful; 
out  of  which  are  created  the  mightiest  ideas  and  the  enchanting 
complexity  of  our  machines,  the  amazing  temples  and  tunnels 
that  pierce  the  rock  of  great  mountains,  books,  pictures,  poems, 
millions  of  tons  of  iron  flung  as  bridges  across  wide  rivers, 
suspended  with  such  miraculous  lightness  in  the  air  —  all  the 
stern  and  lovely,  all  the  mighty  and  tender  poetry  of  our  life. 

By  the  victory  of  the  mind  and  will  over  the  elements  of 
nature  and  the  animal  in  man,  striking  out  ever  brighter 
sparks  of  hope  from  the  iron  wall  of  the  unknown,  we  men 
can  speak  with  legitimate  joy  of  the  planetary  significance 
of  the  great  efforts  of  our  spirit,  most  resplendently  and 
powerfully  expressed  in  literary  and  scientific  creation. 

The  great  virtue  of  literature  is  that  by  deepening  our  con 
sciousness,  by  widening  our  perception  of  life,  by  giving  shape 
to  our  feelings,  it  speaks  to  us  as  with  a  voice  saying:  All 
ideals  and  acts,  all  the  world  of  the  spirit  is  created  out  of 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

the  blood  and  nerves  of  men.  It  tells  us  that  Hen-Toy,  the 
Chinaman,  is  as  agonizingly  unsatisfied  with  the  love  of  woman 
as  Don  Juan,  the  Spaniard ;  that  the  Abyssinian  sings  the  same 
songs  of  the  sorrows  and  joys  of  love  as  the  Frenchman;  that 
there  is  an  equal  pathos  in  the  love  of  a  Japanese  Geisha  and 
Manon  Lescaut;  that  man's  longing  to  find  in  woman  the 
other  half  of  his  soul  has  burned  and  burns  with  an  equal  flame 
men  of  all  lands,  all  times. 

A  murderer  in  Asia  is  as  loathsome  as  in  Europe;  the  Rus 
sian  miser  Plushkin  is  as  pitiable  as  the  French  Grandet;  the 
Tartufes  of  all  countries  are  alike,  Misanthropes  are  equally 
miserable  everywhere,  and  everywhere  every  one  is  equally 
charmed  by  the  touching  image  of  Don  Quixote,  the  Knight 
of  the  Spirit.  And  after  all,  all  men,  in  all  languages,  always 
speak  of  the  same  things,  of  themselves  and  their  fate.  Men 
of  brute  instincts  are  everywhere  alike,  the  world  of  the  intel 
lect  alone  is  infinitely  varied. 

With  a  clearness  irresistibly  convincing,  fine  literature  gives 
us  all  these  innumerable  likenesses  and  infinite  varieties  — 
literature,  the  pulsing  mirror  of  life,  reflecting  with  quiet  sad 
ness  or  with  anger,  with  the  kindly  laugh  of  a  Dickens  or 
the  frightful  grimace  of  Dostoevsky,  all  the  complications  of 
our  spiritual  life,  the  whole  world  of  our  desires,  the  bottom 
less  stagnant  pools  of  banality  and  folly,  our  heroism  and 
cowardice  in  the  face  of  destiny,  the  courage  of  love  and  the 
strength  of  hatred,  all  the  nastiness  of  our  hypocrisy  and  the 
shameful  abundance  of  lies,  the  disgusting  stagnation  of  our 
minds  and  our  endless  agonies,  our  thrilling  hopes  and  sacred 
dreams  —  all  by  which  the  world  lives,  all  that  quivers  in  the 
hearts  of  men.  Watching  man  with  the  eyes  of  a  sensitive 
friend,  or  with  the  stern  glance  of  a  judge,  sympathizing  with 
him,  laughing  at  him,  admiring  his  courage,  cursing  his  nullity 
—  literature  rises  above  life,  and,  together  with  science,  lights 
up  for  men  the  paths  to  the  achievement  of  their  goals,  to 
the  development  of  what  is  good  in  them. 


INTRODUCTION  xiii 

At  times  enchanted  with  the  beautiful  aloofness  of  science, 
literature  may  become  infatuated  with  a  dogma,  and  then  we 
see  Emile  Zola  viewing  man  only  as  a  "belly,"  constructed 
"with  charming  coarseness,"  and  we  also  see  how  the  cold 
despair  of  Du  Bois  Reymond  infects  so  great  an  artist  as 
Gustave  Flaubert. 

It  is  obvious  that  literature  cannot  be  completely  free  from 
what  Turgeniev  called  "  the  pressure  of  time  " ;  it  is  natural, 
for  "  sufficient  unto  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof."  And  it  may 
be  that  the  evil  of  the  day  poisons  more  often  than  it  should 
the  sacred  spirit  of  beauty,  and  our  search  for  its  "  inspirations 
and  prayers";  these  inspirations  and  prayers  are  poisoned  by 
the  venomous  dust  of  the  day.  But  "  the  beautiful  is  the 
rare,"  as  Edmond  Goncourt  justly  said,  and  we  most  certainly 
often  consider  lacking  in  beauty  and  insignificant  habitual 
things  —  those  habitual  things  which,  as  they  recede  into  the 
past,  acquire  for  our  descendants  all  the  marks  and  qualities 
of  true,  unfading  beauty.  Does  not  the  austere  life  of  ancient 
Greece  appear  to  us  beautiful?  Does  not  the  bloody,  stormy 
and  creative  epoch  of  the  Renaissance  with  all  its  "  habitual " 
cruelty  enrapture  us?  It  is  more  than  probable  that  the  great 
days  of  the  social  catastrophe  we  are  going  through  now  will 
arouse  the  ecstasy,  awe  and  creativeness  of  the  generations  that 
will  come  after  us. 

Nor  let  us  forget  that  though  Balzac's  "  Poor  Relations," 
Gogol's  "  Dead  Souls,"  "  The  Pickwick  Papers,"  are  essentially 
books  that  describe  conditions  of  actual  life,  there  is  hidden 
in  them  a  great  and  imperishable  lesson  which  the  best  univer 
sity  cannot  provide,  and  which  an  average  man  will  not  have 
learnt  so  exactly  or  so  clearly  after  fifty  years  of  hard-working 
life. 

The  habitual  is  not  always  banal,  for  it  is  habitual  for  man 
to  be  consumed  in  the  hell  fire  of  his  vocation,  and  this  self- 
consumption  is  always  beautiful  and  necessary,  as  it  is  instruc 
tive  for  those  who  timidly  smoulder  all  their  life  long,  without 


xiv  INTRODUCTION 

blazing  up   in   the  bright  flame  that  destroys  the  man  and 
illuminates  the  mysteries  of  his  spirit. 

Human  errors  are  not  so  characteristic  of  the  art  of  the  word 
and  image;  more  characteristic  is  its  longing  to  raise  man 
above  the  external  conditions  of  existence,  to  free  him  from 
the  fetters  of  the  degrading  actuality,  to  show  him  to  him 
self  not  as  the  slave,  but  as  the  lord  of  circumstance,  the  free 
creator  of  life,  and  in  this  sense  literature  is  ever  revolu 
tionary. 

By  the  mighty  effort  of  genius  rising  about  all  circumstances 
of  actuality,  saturated  with  the  spirit  of  humanity,  kindling 
its  hatred  from  the  excess  of  passionate  love,  fine  literature, 
prose  and  poetry,  is  our  great  vindication,  and  not  our  con 
demnation.  It  knows  that  there  are  no  guilty  —  although 
everything  is  in  man,  everything  is  from  man.  The  cruel  con 
tradictions  of  life  that  arouse  the  enmity  and  hatred  of  nations, 
classes,  individuals,  are  to  literature  only  an  inveterate  error, 
and  she  believes  that  the  ennobled  will  of  men  can  and  must 
destroy  all  errors,  all  that  which,  arresting  the  free  develop 
ment  of  the  spirit,  delivers  man  into  the  power  of  animal 
instincts. 

When  you  look  closely  into  the  mighty  stream  of  creative 
energy  embodied  in  the  word  and  image,  you  feel  and  believe 
that  the  great  purpose  of  this  stream  is  to  wash  away  for 
ever  all  the  differences  between  races,  nations,  classes,  and, 
by  freeing  men  from  the  hard  burden  of  the  struggle  with 
each  other,  to  direct  all  their  forces  to  the  struggle  with  the 
mysterious  forces  of  nature.  And  it  seems  that  then  the  art 
of  the  word  and  image  is  and  will  be  the  religion  of  all  man 
kind  —  a  religion  that  absorbs  everything  that  is  written  in 
the  sacred  writings  of  ancient  India,  in  the  Zend-Avesta,  in 
the  Gospels  and  Koran. 

MAXIM  GORKY 


PART   ONE 

WRITTEN   ESPECIALLY 

FOR 
THE   BORZOI   1920 


THE  MOVIES 

By  Claude  Bragdon 

I  must  protest  against  the  movies,  though  I  be  stoned  to 
death  for  it  in  the  middle  of  Longacre  Square. 

My  sight  is  either  jaundiced  or  clairvoyant:  which,  I  leave 
the  reader  to  decide. 

Strip  life  of  its  color,  mystery,  infinitude;  make  it  stale, 
make  it  grey,  make  it  flat;  rob  the  human  being  of  his  aura, 
deny  him  speech,  quicken  his  movements  into  galvanic  action; 
people  a  glaring  parallelogram  with  these  gigantic  simulacra 
of  men  and  women  moved  by  sub-human  motives;  drug  the 
tormented  nerves  with  music,  so  that  the  audience  shall  not  go 
mad  —  this  is  the  movie  as  it  is  to  me. 

The  other  day  I  read  a  panagyric  on  the  most  beautiful  of 
all  moving  pictures.  I  forced  myself  to  sit  through  it  though 
I  could  scarcely  forbear  shrieking  aloud.  It  was  an  amuse 
ment  seemingly  devised  for  devils  in  hell. 

Only  degradation  of  the  soul  and  a  vast  despondency  result 
from  this  seeking  joy  in  the  pictured  suffering  wickedness, 
weakness  of  others;  in  this  orgy  of  sex-sentimentality,  silliness, 
meaningless  violence.  Such  amusement  either  depraves  the 
mind  or  arrests  its  action,  and  makes  of  the  heart  a  mechanical 
toy  which  must  be  shaken  violently  before  it  will  act. 

Why  do  people  go  to  the  movies?  Because  their  caged  souls 
seek  forgetfulness  and  joy  as  insistently  as  blind  eyes  yearn 
for  light.  But  joy  is  such  a  stranger  to  them  that  they  ig- 
norantly  mistake  this  owl -eyed  Monster  of  Darkness  for  the 
Blue  Bird  of  Happiness,  I  have  asked  many  why  they  go  to 

3 


4  THE  MOVIES 

the  movies,  and  have  heard  many  reasons  —  most  of  them  bad 
—  but  one  answer  recurs  like  a  refrain :  "  There  isn't  any 
thing  else  to  do."  It  reminds  me  of  John  Russel's  reason  why 
Eliza  (of  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin)  crossed  the  river  on  the  ice. 
"  The  poor  girl  had  no  other  place  to  go  —  all  the  saloons 
were  closed." 

Today  all  the  saloons  are  closed,  and  professional  philan 
thropy  prides  itself  on  the  fact  that  more  men  go  now  to  the 
movies.  The  saloon  was  an  evil  institution,  but  the  prostitu 
tion  of  the  mind  is  worse  than  any  poisoning  of  the  nerves. 

The  priests  of  the  temple  of  the  Movie  Momus  do  not  know 
that  they  are  offering  a  form  of  amusement  which  stifles  the 
mind  and  hardens  the  heart.  Doubtless  they  believe  the  con 
trary,  but  it  is  a  case  of  the  blind  led  by  the  blind:  Neither 
know  where  they  are  going,  and  each  depends  upon  the  other 
to  lead  the  way.  Producers,  impressarios,  scenario -writers 
have  always  their  ears  to  the  ground  to  catch  the  first  faint 
rumble  of  condemnation  or  approval.  Their  business  is 
frankly  to  assimilate  the  popular  taste  in  order  to  reproduce  it. 
But  this  taste  is  fickle,  being  that  of  a  child  with  a  digestion  im 
paired  by  too  much  of  the  wrong  kind  of  food.  The  movie 
public  is  like  the  Athenian  populace  always  eager  for  "  some 
new  thing,"  and  like  the  Roman  mob  it  shows  an  insatiable 
greed  for  danger  (to  others)  cruelty  and  destruction.  Of  dar 
ing  it  demands  more  daring;  of  beauty  more  nudity;  of  wick 
edness  a  deeper  depth  of  wickedness;  scenery  must  be  ever 
more  sumptuous,  orgies  more  orgiastic,  violence  more  violent. 
Lacking  anything  to  turn  its  imagination  away  from  these 
things,  into  some  new  channel,  the  public  can  only  build  high 
and  higher  this  particular  house  of  cards. 

There  is  a  great  deal  talked  and  written  about  the  "  educa 
tional  value"  of  the  movies,  and  this  acts  as  a  deterrent  to 
many  persons  who  are  minded,  as  I  am,  to  denounce  this  evil 
in  the  market  place.  But  such  deceive  themselves  with  the 


CLAUDE   BRAGDON  5 

word  "education,"  forgetting  that  mankind  is  one.  In  order 
that  some  may  learn  easily  a  few  merely  physical  facts,  such 
people  countenance  and  support  an  institution  that  eats  at  the 
very  heart  of  the  spirit  of  man. 

I  hear  in  anticipation  the  crushing  argument  against  my 
point  of  view:  The  Movies  constitute  the  fourth  largest  in 
dustry  in  the  world;  they  command  the  respect  of  govern 
ments,  the  service  of  the  press,  the  participation  of  captains  of 
industry,  cabinet  members,  international  bankers.  But  all  this 
is  quite  beside  the  point,  and  reminds  me  of  the  answer  once 
given  to  my  criticism  of  an  absurd  soldiers'  monument :  "  It 
cost  fifty  thousand  dollars  and  was  carved  out  of  a  single  piece 
of  granite  that  weighed  ten  tons." 

The  Movies  too  are  carved  out  of  a  single  piece  of  granite: 
the  granite  of  ignorance  of  the  obscure  spiritual  forces  now 
active  in  the  secret  hearts  of  men. 

On  a  vast  scale,  in  infinite  variety  of  detail,  the  Movies 
show 

"  The  very  age  and  body  of  the  time  its  form  and  pressure." 

May  not  the  unforeseen,  amazing,  ultimate  result  be  to  re 
coil  in  horror  from  the  image  there  presented?  The  Movies 
represent  the  quest  of  joy  aborted.  Perhaps  their  true  pur 
pose  is  to  bring  bitter,  but  salutary  knowledge. 


MAXWELL   BODENHEIM 
By  Witter  Bynner 

While  poets  have  been  placed  by  the  critics  in  this  or  that 
category  and  have  lent  themselves  more  or  less  to  the  indignity, 
Maxwell  Bodenheim  has  continued  as  he  began,  a  poet  of  dis 
turbing  originality.  Whether  you  like  him  or  not,  you  can 
not  evade  him.  Let  him  once  touch  you  and  a  perfume  is 
upon  you,  pungent  and  yet  faint,  offensive  and  yet  delicate,  of 
the  street  and  yet  exotic.  It  is  as  if  Pierian  springs  bubbled 
crystalline  from  the  nearest  sewer,  forcing  from  you  a  puz 
zled  and  troubled  enjoyment.  It  is  as  if  a  diamond  leered  or 
a  rose  exhaled  sulphur  or  a  humming-bird  lanced  your  self- 
respect.  It  is  a  drunken  thief's  hand,  still  deft,  in  the  poetic 
treasury;  nuances  pouring  Niagaran;  sensibilities  crowding  in 
masquerade;  madness  mocking  sanity;  ideas  dancing  nude 
through  confetti;  a  falsetto  growl;  a  whispered  song;  a  rain 
bow  in  the  loose : —  and  yet,  all  the  while  a  human  eye  watch 
ing  the  incredible  kaleidoscope,  an  eye  that  sees  and  makes 
you  see  likewise,  good  and  evil,  beauty  and  pain,  opposing 
and  commingling  their  designs.  Historically  Bodenheim's 
work  is  likely  to  share  with  Donald  Evans'  very  different 
"  Sonnets  from  the  Patagonian "  the  distinction  of  having 
initiated  in  American  poetry  for  better  or  worse  the  season  and 
influence  of  fantastic  impressionism.  Evans  has  now  become 
almost  orthodox,  his  green  orchid  is  put  away;  but  Boden 
heim  still  wears  in  his  lapel  the  coloured  ghost  of  a  butterfly- 
wing  whose  veinings  mock  at  human  progress. 

6 


ON   THE   ART   OF   FICTION 
By  Willa  Gather 

One  is  sometimes  asked  about  the  "  obstacles "  that  con 
front  young  writers  who  are  trying  to  do  good  work.  I  should 
say  the  greatest  obstacles  that  writers  today  have  to  get  over, 
are  the  dazzling  journalistic  successes  of  twenty  years  ago, 
stories  that  surprised  and  delighted  by  their  sharp  photo 
graphic  detail  and  that  were  really  nothing  more  than  lively 
pieces  of  reporting.  The  whole  aim  of  that  school  of  writing 
was  novelty  —  never  a  very  important  thing  in  art.  They 
gave  us,  altogether,  poor  standards  —  taught  us  to  multiply 
our  ideas  instead  of  to  condense  them.  They  tried  to  make  a 
story  out  of  every  theme  that  occurred  to  them  and  to  get  re 
turns  on  every  situation  that  suggested  itself.  They  got  re 
turns,  of  a  kind.  But  their  work,  when  one  looks  back  on  it, 
now  that  the  novelty  upon  which  they  counted  so  much  is 
gone,  is  journalistic  and  thin.  The  especial  merit  of  a  good 
reportorial  story  is  that  it  shall  be  intensely  interesting  and 
pertinent  today  and  shall  have  lost  its  point  by  tomorrow. 

Art,  it  seems  to  me,  should  simplify.  That,  indeed,  is  very 
nearly  the  whole  of  the  higher  artistic  process;  finding  what 
conventions  of  form  and  what  detail  one  can  do  without  and 
yet  preserve  the  spirit  of  the  whole  —  so  that  all  that  one 
has  suppressed  and  cut  away  is  there  to  the  reader's  conscious 
ness  as  much  as  if  it  were  in  type  on  the  page.  Millet  had 
done  hundreds  of  sketches  of  peasants  sowing  grain,  some  of 
them  very  complicated  and  interesting,  but  when  he  came  to 

7 


8  ON   THE   ART   OF   FICTION 

paint  the  spirit  of  them  all  into  one  picture,  "  The  Sower,"  the 
composition  is  so  simple  that  it  seems  inevitable.  All  the  dis 
carded  sketches  that  went  before  made  the  picture  what  it 
finally  became,  and  the  process  was  all  the  time  one  of  simpli 
fying,  of  sacrificing  many  conceptions  good  in  themselves  for 
one  that  was  better  and  more  universal. 

Any  first  rate  novel  or  story  must  have  in  it  the  strength 
of  a  dozen  fairly  good  stories  that  have  been  sacrificed  to  it. 
A  good  workman  can't  be  a  cheap  workman ;  he  can't  be  stingy 
about  wasting  material,  and  he  cannot  compromise.  Writing 
ought  either  to  be  the  manufacture  of  stories  for  which  there 
is  a  market  demand  —  a  business  as  safe  and  commendable  as 
making  soap  or  breakfast  foods  —  or  it  should  be  an  art, 
which  is  always  a  search  for  something  for  which  there  is  no 
market  demand,  something  new  and  untried,  where  the  values 
are  intrinsic  and  have  nothing  to  do  with  standardized  values. 
The  courage  to  go  on  without  compromise  does  not  come  to  a 
writer  all  at  once  —  nor,  for  that  matter,  does  the  ability. 
Both  are  phases  of  natural  development.  In  the  beginning, 
the  artist,  like  his  public,  is  wedded  to  old  forms,  old  ideals, 
and  his  vision  is  blurred  by  the  memory  of  old  delights  he 
would  like  to  recapture. 


ASTONISHING    PSYCHIC    EXPERIENCE 

Being  a  True  Account  of  How  Alfred  A.  Knopf  Appeared 
in  a  Vision  to  Clarence  Day,  Jr. 

I  have  a  friend  who,  when  she  hears  a  strange  voice  on  the 
telephone,  can  visualize  the  person  —  that  is  to  say,  she  some 
times  can,  if  it  interests  her.  She  half- 
closes  her  eyes,  tilts  her  head  back, 
stares  away  off  into  space;  and  then 
she  slowly  describes  the  appearance  of 
whoever  is  telephoning,  almost  as 
well  as  though  he  or  she  were  stand 
ing  before  her.  It  is  one  of  those  supernatural  gifts  that  seem 
to  our  times  so  startling. 

The  reason  I  mention  this  is,  that  though  I  hadn't  supposed 
I  was  that  sort  of  person,  I  had  one  of  these  mysterious  psychic 
visions  myself,  years  ago.  It  came  to  me  while  I  was  reading 
Mr.  Knopf's  first  announcements  of  books.  I  had  never  seen 
the  man,  never  heard  a  word  of  what  he  was  like,  yet  his 
image  suddenly  arose  clear  as  a  photograph  before  my  inner 
eye.  There  he  stood,  tall  and  thin,  an  elder  states 
man,  with  a  bushy  white  beard;  round,  glowing 
eyes,  ivory  skin;  an  animated  savant. 

He  spoke  in  his  circulars  as  a  man  of  great  taste 
and  authority.  I  pictured  him  as  a  French  Acade 
mician  of  American  birth. 

Year  by  year  as  I  read  his  new  catalogs  this 
image  grew  stronger.  People  would  ask  me,  "  Have  you  met 
this  man  Knopf?  "  and  I  would  say:  "No,  I  haven't,  but  I 
can  tell  you  what  he's  like  just  the  same.  I'm  a  bit  of  a 

9 


10  PSYCHIC  EXPERIENCE 

psychic."  And  then  I  would  describe  my  strange  vision.  This 
sometimes  annoyed  them  :  they  would  even  ask,  "  But  how  do 
you  know?  "  I  would  then  describe  the  sense  of  quiet  certitude 
that  comes  with  such  an  experience. 

Then  one  evening  I  met  Mr.  Knopf  —  in  the  flesh,  as  we 
phrase  it.  I  found  he  had  changed.  He  was  more  human, 
and  in  a  way  more  impressive,  but  less  pic 
turesque.  Instead  of  being  tall  and  thin  he 
was  of  medium-size,  strong,  and  well-formed. 
And  he  wasn't  exactly  what  you'd  call  old: 
in  fact  he  was  in  his  twenties;  and  instead 
of  a  bushy  white  beard,  he  had  only  a  small 
black  moustache. 

It  is  not  for  me  to  explain  this  astonishing  and  almost  in 
credible  discrepancy.  I  must  leave  that  to  the  Psychical  Re 
search  Society,  to  which  I  wish  all  success.  The  only  way 
I  can  account  for  it  is  to  suppose  that  Mr.  Knopf  has  more 
than  one  personality.  I  admit  I  did  not  see  in  my  vision  the 
side  he  physically  presents  to  the  world.  But  it  may  be  I 
am  such  a  powerful  psychic  that  I  saw  something  deeper.  I 
saw  the  more  appropriate  vehicle  of  his  innermost  soul. 

We  sat  down  for  a  talk.  I  tried  out  of  courtesy  not  to  use 
this  power  of  mine  any  further.  Even  when  I  gave  him  my 
manuscript  to  publish,  and  we  began  to  talk  terms,  I  endeav 
oured  not  to  peer  into  his  heart.  He  gave  me  good  terms  how 
ever.  He  explained  that  his  idea  of  a  publishing  house  was  a 
sort  of  a  companionable  enterprise,  and  that  authors  and  pub 
lishers  ought  to  be  friends.  They  at  least  ought  to  try. 

I  carefully  looked  over  his  list  to  see  who  his  author-friends 
were,  and  picked  out  one  or  two  pretty  rum  ones  and  asked 
him  about  them.  He  admitted  with  composure  that  of  course 
every  man  made  mistakes.  I  said  anxiously  that  I  hoped  I 
had  made  none  in  choosing  him  as  my  publisher.  He  said 
probably  not;  but  it  was  harder  for  him  to  pick  out  the  right 


CLARENCE   DAY,   JR.  11 

authors.     He  added  however  that  he  had  done  very  well  - —  up 
to  now. 

We  stared  thoughtfully  at  each  other.  .  .  . 
I  glanced  at  his  list  again.  It  did  consist  chiefly  of  quality 
belles  lettres,  after  all.  He  really  seemed  to  care  about  books. 
But  then  I  wondered  suspiciously  if  the  very  fact  of  his  being 
so  cultivated  had  made  him  a  poor  man  of  business.  His  ap 
pearance  was  certainly  forceful  and  energetic,  but  neverthe 
less — 

I  decided  to  have  one  more  vision.  I  half-closed  my  eyes, 
the  way  that  friend  of  mine  does,  and  tilted  my  head  back. 
Mr.  Knopf  seemed  surprised.  I  paid  no  attention  to  this, 
but  coolly  gazed  right  into  his  mind.  It  was  a  tall,  roomy 
mind,  with  long  rows  of  thoughts,  like  onions  on  rafters  — 
thoughts  of  bindings  and  dogs  and  Archimedes  and  authors 
and  what-not.  In  the  middle  was  a  huge  pile  of  packing  cases 
(mostly  unopened)  containing  his  plans  and  ambitions  in  the 
publishing  world.  I  am  sorry  now  I  didn't  unpack  a  few  to 
see  what  they  were,  but  they  looked  pretty  solid;  and  I  was 
distracted  by  seeing,  way  over  in  a  corner,  his  thoughts  of  my 
self.  As  these  were  at  that  time  rather  mixed,  I  prefer  not  to 
describe  them.  My  catching  sight  of  them  at  all  was  merely 
one  of  those  unhappy  annoyances  that  must  often  upset  a 
seer's  life.  It's  one  of  the  risks  of  the  business. 

As   I    gazed    on,    indignantly,    something 
drew   across  his  mind   like   a   truck,    only 
even  more  massive.     I  presently  discerned 
that  it  was  a  large  strong  intention  to  go. 
Simultaneously  —  for  the  man   is  well   co 
ordinated  —  he  said  good-bye  and  went  out. 
I  was  left  there  alone  in  my  rooms,  with  my  weird  psychic 
gift.     I  may  add  that  after  a  brief  contemplation  of  it,  I  rang 
for  the  janitor,  and  in  spite  of  his  bitter  objections,  transferred 
it  to  him. 


MAX   BEERBOHM 
By  Floyd  Dell 

The  very  name  of  Max  Beerbohm  carries  the  mind  back  to 
the  time  when  he  first  emerged  as  a  literary  figure  —  the  time 
of  the  Yellow  Book  —  the  time  of  Whistler's  letters  and  Swin 
burne's  newest  poem,  of  velvet  jackets  and  plush  knee-breeches, 
and  foot-in-the-grave  young  poets  who  caroused  mournfully  at 
the  sign  of  the  Bodley  Head.  But  it  was  above  all  the  period 
of  the  Enoch  Soameses  who  are  celebrated  by  Max  Beerbohm 
in  his  latest  volume,  "  Seven  Men  " —  an  age  of  strange  young 
Satanists  who  would  be  content  with  nothing  less  than  found 
ing  a  new  English  literature  upon  the  cornerstone  of  their 
own  thin  sheaves  of  unintelligible  poems.  They  are  dead, 
now  —  they  got  tired  of  waiting  for  their  immortality  to  be 
gin  —  and  forgotten,  except  for  the  wreaths  of  tender  and 
ironic  phrases  wrhich  Max  Beerbohm  lays  from  time  to  time 
on  their  graves.  He  survives  them,  the  Last  of  the  Esthetes. 
And  yet  Enoch  Soames  would  say  bitterly  that  it  was  just  like 
Fate  that  the  Last  of  the  Esthetes  should  be  a  man  who  never 
was  an  Esthete  at  all! 

And  there  is  something  to  the  Enoch  Soames  point  of  view. 
Max  Beerbohm's  title  to  Estheticism  is  rather  precarious.  His 
words  may  be  the  words  of  Dorian  Grey,  but  the  laughter  be 
hind  them  is  surely  the  laughter  of  Huck  Finn!  Yes,  under 
the  jewelled  stylistic  cloak  of  Max  Beerbohm,  what  do  you 
find  but  the  simple-hearted  amusement  of  a  healthy  child? 
From  the  story  of  the  Young  Prince  in  "  The  Complete  Works 
of  Max  Beerbohm,"  to  the  celebrated  Bathtub  passage  in 

12 


.2. 

f 

4 

\ 


14  MAX  BEERBOHM 

You  are  stopped  by  a  gun-shot  across  your  bow,  and  you  pre 
pare  for  the  worst.  But  the  worst  is  merely  a  jolly  invitation 
in  a  boyish  voice  to  a  game  of  marbles. 

The  combination  is  irresistible.  ...  I  am  reminded  of  an 
authentic  tale  of  the  South  seas.  A  band  of  wicked  mutineers 
set  their  captain  and  officers  afloat  in  an  open  boat,  and  sailed 
to  Pitcairn  Island,  where  they  proceeded  to  live  in  the  most 
Nietzschean  fashion  imaginable,  enslaving  the  natives,  taking 
their  wives  away  from  them,  and  living  in  fabulous  luxury. 
They  were  a  fractious  lot,  however,  and  they  quarrelled  among 
themselves,  and  shot  each  other  up,  and  went  insane  and  com 
mitted  suicide,  until  the  natives  got  tired  of  it,  and  revolted 
and  killed  them  all  —  all  except  one  gentle  person  who  had 
got  mixed  up  with  the  mutineers  by  mistake.  He  was  not  a 
Nietzschean;  he  believed  at  heart  in  all  the  old-fashioned  vir 
tues.  And  where  the  Nietzscheans  had  failed,  he  succeeded 
—  so  notably  that  when  the  island  was  rediscovered  half  a  cen 
tury  later,  he  was  ruling  there  in  a  little  peaceful  paradise, 
the  Last  of  the  Mutineers.  There  is  something  about  gentle 
ness,  it  would  seem,  that  makes  for  survival.  And  I  like  to 
think  that  Max  Beerbohm  remains  with  us  to  tell  the  story 
of  quaint,  devil-worshipping  literary  mutineers  like  Enoch 
Soames,  precisely  because  he  cannot  bear  ever  to  press  home 
the  shining  blade  of  his  wit  to  its  most  deadly  extent  —  be 
cause  he  does  not  really  want  to  hurt  anybody  after  all,  not 
even  Enoch  Soames. 


Photograph  by  Robert  H.  Davis 


JOSEPH   HERGESHEIMER 

By  Wilson  Follett 
I 

When  Mr.  Knopf  asked  me  to  pay  my  brief  respects  to 
Joseph  Hergesheimer,  he  must  have  been  aware  that  I  had  not 
the  material  for  an  intimate  portrait.  He  and  my  other  read 
ers  must  forgive  me,  then,  if  what  I  shall  have  to  say  tallies 
rather  better  with  the  exigencies  of  formal  public  criticism 
than  with  the  more  delightful  convenances  of  this  altogether 
jolly  family  party.  After  all,  there  is  a  certain  advantage  — 
especially  for  a  person  of  amiably  weak  will  —  in  knowing  an 
author's  public  aspects  better  than  his  private  and  personal. 
I  cannot  profess  to  be  of  those  austere  souls  who  can  criticize 
the  book  of  a  friend  as  if  he  were  not  a  friend,  or,  knowing  and 
liking  a  man,  can  read  or  appraise  his  books  uninfluenced  by  a 
charm  which  would  still  exist  even  if  the  books  did  not.  Be 
cause  of  this  distrusted  weakness  of  my  own  temper,  I  insist 
on  being  glad  that  I  never  met  or  even  saw  Joseph  Herges 
heimer  until  "  The  Three  Black  Pennys  "  had  become  a  solid 
part  of  my  awareness  of  things  —  the  things  that  do  most 
richly  signify.  I  never  had  any  reason  to  think  well  —  or  ill 
—  of  this  author  until  the  Pennys  and  "  Gold  and  Iron  "  had  ex 
erted  their  swift  effortless  compulsion.  Even  now,  I  can  lay 
claim  to  no  more  than  what  the  biographic  essayist  calls,  in 
his  standard  idiom,  a  "  literary  friendship  " —  meaning  thereby 
the  occasional  exchange  of  abysmally  polite  letters  on  purely 
impersonal  subjects  or  personal  subjects  impersonally  dealt 
with. 

15 


16  JOSEPH   HERGESHEIMER 

II 

Yet  even  I  have  my  one  sufficiently  quaint,  sufficiently  spicy 
reminiscence.  And  meet  it  is  I  set  it  down  —  partly  because  it 
seems  too  precious  to  die,  even  more  because  otherwise,  as  time 
shuffles  the  cards  of  our  mortal  anecdotage,  it  will  be  sure  to 
turn  up,  with  only  the  substitution  of  one  name  for  another, 
as  part  of  the  mythos  surrounding  the  late  Jack  London,  or 
Richard  Harding  Davis,  or  some  still  flourishing  nominee  for 
an  epitaph  and  an  official  biography. 

It  was  three  o'clock  of  a  rainy  summer  morning  in  1918. 
Hergesheimer  and  your  present  scribe  were  sleeping  —  or 
rather  we  were  not  —  in  the  twin  beds  of  a  guest-room  at 
San-Souci,  in  Hartsdale.  A  Nox  Ambrosiana  had  been  put 
behind  us,  and,  we  fatuously  supposed,  a  few  hours  of  am 
brosial  sleep  lay  ahead.  It  had  been  a  great  night,  dedicated 
to  much  fine  talk  of  Art,  and  as  free  from  "  the  posings  and 
pretensions  of  art  "  as  Conrad's  Preface  to  "  The  Nigger."  But 
that  is  not  the  story. 

Somewhere  in  the  blackness  under  our  opened  windows, 
vocal  in  his  forlornness,  was  Bistri,  the  flesh-and-blood  original 
of  the  borzoi  whose  mere  inadequate  outline  appears  on  a  really 
amazing  proportion  of  the  most  distinguished  books  now  being 
published  in  These  United  States  —  or,  if  your  literary  capital 
be  Arnold  Bennett's,  Those  United  States  This  Bistri,  a  per 
fectly  incredible  yet  perfectly  actual  milk-white  creature  of 
enormous  size,  decorative  as  a  dryad,  but  possessed  of  some 
thing  less  than  half  a  gill  of  brains  within  his  extremely  doli 
chocephalic  head,  was  frank  to  assert  —  and  reiterate  —  his 
disapproval  of  the  pelting  rain  and  his  cynical  disillusionment 
in  respect  to  the  kindly  graces  of  humankind.  The  sound  was 
like  the  ululating  whimper  of  a  punished  child,  only  it  hinted 
no  promise  of  subsiding,  ever. 

Genius,  supine  in  the  dark  across  the  room,  grew  first  restive, 


WILSON   FOLLETT  17 

then  indignant,  then  furious,  and  thence,  passing  round  the 
circle  of  exhausted  emotions,  came  back  by  the  way  of  despair 
to  a  disgusted  silence.  Not  so  Bistri:  silence  was  the  last 
thing  to  fall  within  the  orbit  of  his  intentions,  so  long  as  the 
Master  and  Maker  of  dogs  vouchsafed  him  breath  and  being. 
Gradually  the  silence  of  genius,  there  across  the  room,  ac 
quired  a  subtly  grim  texture.  When  next  the  voice  of  genius 
spoke,  it  was  tensely,  with  suppressed  ferocity,  as  through 
clenched  teeth.  What  it  said  was  this:  "  /'//  bet  Scribner  has 
got  no  such  damned  dog" 

The  rest,  after  Gargantuan  laughter,  was  silence.  .  .  .  Ah, 
but  was  it,  quite?  Or  did  the  speaker  of  these  words,  also 
deeming  them  too  precious  to  die,  retail  them  at  late  breakfast 
to  the  mistress  of  the  borzoi,  even  as  their  sole  hearer  presently 
reported  them  at  earlier  breakfast  to  the  borzoi's  master?  It 
would  be  interesting  to  know  —  and  not  very  surprising  either 
way. 

Ill 

So  far  the  record  of  a  personal  and  temperamental  suscepti 
bility,  of  some  incidental  interest,  perhaps,  to  the  curious. 
What  remains  to  speak  of  is  the  deeper  susceptibility  of  which 
Mr.  Hergesheimer's  books  are  the  record,  and  which  runs 
through  all  his  public  work,  a  determining  law  and  a  binding 
continuum;  that  enormous  and  delicate  susceptibility  to  sights, 
sounds,  forms,  colours,  movements,  aspects,  which  is  at  once 
his  purpose  and  his  effect,  his  unconscious  excuse  for  being 
and  his  conscious  claim  to  self -justification.  He  might  say,  in 
the  words  of  a  document  already  referred  to,  and  important  in 
the  history  of  fictional  art :  "  My  task  which  I  am  trying  to 
achieve  is,  by  the  power  of  the  written  word,  to  make  you 
hear,  to  make  you  feel  —  it  is,  before  all,  to  make  you  see. 
That  —  and  no  more,  and  it  is  everything.  If  I  succeed,  you 
shall  find  there  according  to  your  deserts:  encouragement, 


18  JOSEPH  HERGESHEIMER 

consolation,  fear,  charm  —  all  you  demand  and,  perhaps,  also 
that  glimpse  of  truth  for  which  you  have  forgotten  to  ask." 

We  can  all  see  now,  with  the  glib  wisdom  of  after  the  event, 
that  Mr.  Hergesheimer's  career  before  its  one  sharp  early 
break  is  —  comparatively  —  all  promise,  and  after  that  break 
—  comparatively  —  all  performance.  In  "  The  Lay  Anthony  " 
and  "  Mountain  Blood  "  one  finds  a  slight  uneasiness  or  un- 
evenness  of  recital,  the  result,  I  think,  of  a  subconscious 
attempt  to  make  the  manner  dignify  and  sanction  two 
performances  not,  in  matter,  quite  good  enough  to  receive  that 
ultimate  sanction,  style.  With  and  after  "  The  Three  Black 
Pennys,"  and  very  specially  in  "  Java  Head "  and  "  Wild 
Oranges,"  which  remain  thus  far  the  masterpieces  of  perfect 
formal  i>-*egrity,  this  discrepancy  is  lost  from  the  reckoning. 
The  artist  has  an  exigent  discrimination  of  that  which  is  good 
enough  for  him  to  touch,  and  his  touch  upon  it  is  exquisite. 

But  in  one  respect,  the  betrayal  of  a  born  artist's  susceptibil 
ity,  the  works  of  promise  are  at  one  with  the  works  of  per 
formance.  The  man  who  could  not  help  going  out  of  his 
way,  in  "  The  Lay  Anthony,"  to  allude  to  "  Heart  of  Darkness  " 
as  "  the  most  beautiful  story  of  our  time,"  was  simply  pre 
destined  to  write  a  book  of  which  susceptibility  to  beauty  should 
actually  be  the  theme  —  as  he  did  in  "  Linda  Condon."  And 
the  man  who,  in  "  Java  Head,"  achieved  so  supreme  a  satura 
tion  with  the  aromas  and  essences  of  loveliness,  had  prefigured 
his  own  future  when,  in  "Mountain  Blood,"  he  wrote:  "The 
barrier  against  which  he  still  fished  was  mauve,  the  water 
black ;  the  moon  appeared  buoyantly,  like  a  rosy  bubble  blown 
upon  a  curtain  of  old  blue  velvet." 

Just  here,  in  the  crystallization  of  his  own  sensitivity  into 
the  objective  forms  of  beauty,  lies  the  peculiar  distinction  of 
Hergesheimer.  It  is  an  aristocratic  distinction.  It  is,  if  you 
go  by  the  counting  of  tastes,  a  distinctly  un-American  trait. 
This  fact  it  is,  rather  than  any  less  fundamental  consideration, 


WILSON   FOLLETT  19 

which  explains  —  even  if  it  does  not  justify  —  those  critics 
who  even  before  they  discover  how  to  divide  his  name  prop 
erly  into  syllables,  discover  that  there  is  something  slightly 
exotic  about  him.  Exotic  or  autochthonolus  —  what  does  it 
matter?  The  point  is,  Mr  Hergesheimer's  power  "to  make 
you  hear,  to  make  you  feel  .  .  .  before  all,  to  make  you 
see  "  is  the  condition  of  his  success  as  a  coiner  of  beauty.  It 
is  also  his  way,  whatever  way  another  artist  may  take,  to  re 
veal  to  us  those  glimpses  of  deep  truth  for  which  we  may, 
indeed,  have  forgotten  to  ask,  but  for  which,  once  they  are 
opened  to  our  sight,  we  can  never  forget  to  be  grateful. 


ON   DRAWING1 
By  A.  P.  Herbert 

It  is  commonly  said  that  everybody  can  sing  in  the  bath 
room;  and  this  is  true.  Singing  is  very  easy.  Drawing, 
though,  is  much  more  difficult.  I  have  devoted  a  good  deal  of 
time  to  Drawing,  one  way  and  another;  I  have  to  attend  a 
great  many  committees  and  public  meetings,  and  at  such  func 
tions  I  find  that  Drawing  is  almost  the  only  Art  one  can  satis 
factorily  pursue  during  the  speeches.  One  really  cannot  sing 
during  the  speeches;  so  as  a  rule  I  draw.  I  do  not  say  that 
I  am  an  expert  yet,  but  after  a  few  more  meetings  I  calculate 
that  I  shall  know  Drawing  as  well  as  it  can  be  knowrn. 

The  first  thing,  of  course,  is  to  get  on  to  a  really  good  com 
mittee;  and  by  a  good  committee  I  mean  a  committee  that  pro 
vides  decent  materials.  An  ordinary  departmental  committee 
is  no  use:  generally  they  only  give  you  a  couple  of  pages  of 
lined  foolscap  and  no  white  blotting-paper,  and  very  often  the 
pencils  are  quite  soft.  White  blotting-paper  is  essential.  I 
know  of  no  material  the  spoiling  of  which  gives  so  much  artis 
tic  pleasure  —  except  perhaps  snow.  Indeed,  if  I  was  asked 
to  choose  between  making  pencil-marks  on  a  sheet  of  white 
blotting-paper  and  making  foot-marks  on  a  sheet  of  white  snow 
I  should  be  in  a  thingummy. 

Much  the  best  committees  from  the  point  of  view  of  material 
are  committees  about  business  which  meet  at  business  prem 
ises  —  shipping  offices,  for  choice.  One  of  the  Pacific  Lines 

1  This  paper  appeared  in  "  Land  and  Water  "  [London] ,  but  has  never 
before  been  published  in  the  United  States. 

20 


A.   P.    HERBERT  21 

has  the  best  white  blotting-paper  I  know ;  and  the  pencils  there 
are  a  dream.  I  am  sure  the  directors  of  that  firm  are  Draw 
ers;  for  they  always  give  you  two  pencils,  one  hard  for  doing 
noses,  and  one  soft  for  doing  hair. 

When  you  have  selected  your  committee  and  the 
speeches  are  well  away,  the  Drawing  begins.  Much 
the  best  thing  to  draw  is  a  man.  Not  the  chairman, 
or  Lord  Pommery  Quint,  or  any  member  of  the  com 
mittee,  but  just  A  Man.  Many  novices  make  the  mis-  F. 
take  of  selecting  a  subject  for  their  Art  before  they 
begin;  usually  they  select  the  chairman.  And  when  they  find 
it  is  more  like  Mr.  Gladstone  they  are  discouraged.  If  they  had 
waited  a  little  it  could  have  been  Mr.  Gladstone  officially. 

As  a  rule  I  begin  with  the  forehead  and  work  down 
to  the  chin  (Fig.  1). 

When  I  have  done  the  outline  I  put  in  the  eye. 
This  is  one  of  the  most  difficult  parts  of  Drawing; 
one  is  never  quite  sure  where  the  eye  goes.     If,  how- 
F.     2      ever,  it  is  not  a  good  eye,  a  useful  tip  is  to  give  the 
man  spectacles;  this  generally  makes  him  a  clergy 
man,  but  it  helps  the  eye  (Fig.  2). 

Now  you  have  to  outline  the  rest  of  the  head,  and  this  is 
rather  a  gamble.  Personally,  I  go  in  for  strong  heads  (Fig. 

3>- 

I  am  afraid  it  is  not  a  strong  neck;   I  expect 

he  is  an  author,  and  is  not  well  fed.  But  that  is 
the  worst  of  strong  heads;  they  make  it  so  diffi 
cult  to  join  up  the  chin  and  the  back  of  the  neck. 

The  next  thing  to  do  is  to  put  in  the  ear;  and 
once  you  have  done  this  the  rest  is  easy.     Ears         Fig.  3 
are  much  more  difficult  than  eyes  (Fig.  4). 

I  hope  that  is  right.  It  seems  to  me  to  be  a  little  too  far 
to  the  southward.  But  it  is  done  now.  And  once  you  have 
put  in  the  ear  you  can't  go  back;  not  unless  you  are  on  a  very 


22  ON   DRAWING 

good  committee  which  provides  india-rubber  as  well  as  pencils. 
Now  I  do  the  hair.  Hair  may  either  be  very  fuzzy  and  black, 
or  lightish  and  thin.  It  depends  chiefly  on  what 
sort  of  pencils  are  provided.  For  myself  I 
prefer  black  hair,  because  then  the  parting  shows 
up  better  (Fig.  5). 

Until  one  draws  hair  one  never  realizes  what 
„.     .          large  heads  people  have.     Doing  the  hair  takes 
the  whole  of  a  speech,  usually,  even  one  of  the 
chairman's  speeches. 

This  is  not  one  of  my  best  men;  I  am  sure  the  ear  is  in  the 
wrong  place.  And  I  am  inclined  to  think  he  ought  to  have 
spectacles.  Only  then  he  would  be  a  clergyman,  and  I  have 
decided  that  he  is  Mr.  Philip  Gibbs  at  the  age  of 
twenty.  So  he  must  carry  on  with  his  eye  as  it 
is. 

I  find  that  all  my  best  men  face  to  the  west; 
it   is   a   curious   thing.     Sometimes   I   draw   two 
men  facing  each  other,  but  the  one  facing  east        {,. 
is  always  a  dud. 

There,  you  see  (Fig.  6)  ?  The  one  on  the  right  is  a  Bolshe 
vik;  he  has  a  low  forehead  and  beetling  brows  —  a  most  un 
pleasant  man.  Yet  he  has  a  powerful  face.  The  one  on  the 
left  was  meant  to  be  another  Bolshevik,  arguing  with  him. 


Fig.  6 

But  he  has  turned  out  to  be  a  lady,  so  I  have  had  to  give 
her  a  "bun."  She  is  a  lady  solicitor;  but  I  don't  know  how 
she  came  to  be  talking  to  the  Bolshevik. 


A.   P.   HERBERT  23 

When  you  have  learned  how  to  do  Men,  the  only  other  things 
in  Drawing  are  Perspective  and  Landscape. 


Fig.  7 

PERSPECTIVE  is  great  fun:  the  best  thing  to  do  is  a  long 
French  road  with  telegraph  poles  (Fig.  7). 

I  have  put  in  a  fence  as  well. 

LANDSCAPE  is  chiefly  composed  of  hills  and  trees.  Trees 
are  the  most  amusing,  especially  fluffy  trees. 

Here  is  a  Landscape  (Fig.  8). 


Fig.  8 

Somehow  or  other  a  man  has  got  into  this  landscape;  and, 
as  luck  would  have  it,  it  is  Napoleon.  Apart  from  this  it  is 
not  a  bad  landscape. 

But  it  takes  a  very  long  speech  to  get  an  ambitious  piece  of 
work  like  this  through. 

There  is  one  other  thing  I  ought  to  have  said.  Never  at 
tempt  to  draw  a  man  front-face.  It  can't  be  done. 


A  NOTE  ON  THE  CHINESE  POEMS  TRANS 
LATED   BY   ARTHUR   WALEY1 

By  Joseph  Hergesheimer 

It  is  the  special  province  of  poetry,  as  of  charming  women, 
to  delight  rather  than  afford  the  more  material  benefits.  Noth 
ing  could  be  vainer  than  putting  either  of  them  to  the  rude 
uses  of  life;  they  are  the  essence  of  aristocracy;  and  the  in 
difference,  the  contempt  really,  with  which  the  mass  of  people 
regard  poetic  measures,  and  conversely,  the  disdain  of  charm 
for  the  whole  common  body  of  opinion,  show  clearly  the  wide 
separation  between  prosaic  fact  and  fancy.  The  former  has 
the  allegiance  of  the  mob,  as  it  should,  since,  without  imagina 
tive  sensibility,  the  mechanical  process  of  existence  is  a  stupid 
multiplication  of  similar  instincts;  while  fancy,  poetry,  beauty, 
the  properties  of  delicate  minds  and  aspirations,  are,  by  the 
very  qualities  necessary  to  their  being,  limited  to  a  select  few. 

There  were  ages,  long  submerged  now  by  the  obliterating 
tide  of  progress,  when  poetry  was,  generally,  a  force  in  men's 
lives;  and  then,  as  well,  women's  beauty  was  held  above  their 
mere  animality;  but  the  levelling  democracy  of  Christian  re 
ligions,  lending  a  new  power  to  the  resentment  and  suspicions 
of  congregations  of  the  inferior,  ended  perhaps  for  ever  reigns 
of  distinction.  Yet,  ironically,  while  sects  vanished  over  night 
and  fanatics  were  denied  even  the  final  distinction  of  martyr 
dom,  while  great  empires  sank  leaving  no  ripple  on  the  sur 
face  of  memory,  stray  lines  of  wanton  poetry,  the  record  of 
lovely  bodies,  remained  imperishable. 

1  See  Bibliography. 

24 


JOSEPH   HERGESHEIMER  25 

They  were  deathless  —  such  frivolities  as  the  Trojan  Helen 
and  the  words  Sappho  strung  from  her  loneliness  —  because 
they  were  the  inalienable  property  of  the  heart  ...  the  clam 
orous  dogmas  were  nothing  more  than  the  pretentions  of  an 
thropomorphic  vanity.  But  that,  with  its  tinsel  promises  and 
brimstone  threats,  a  sentimental  melodrama,  gathered  the  audi 
ences,  the  credulity,  of  humanity,  and  left  unattended  the 
heroic  performance  of  naked  beauty.  This,  at  its  best,  was  a 
sheer  cool  cutting  of  marble;  but  there  was  another  beauty, 
hardly  inferior,  where  embroidered  garments  and  carmine  and 
jade,  both  hid  and  revealed  less  simple  but  scarcely  less  sig 
nificant  emotions. 

For  this  reason,  while  Ionic  Greece  is  no  longer  a  part  of 
modern  consciousness,  the  poem  written  by  the  sixth  em 
peror  of  the  Han  dynasty,  perhaps  two  thousand  years  ago,  is 
identical  with  the  present  complex  troubled  mind:  an  autumn 
wind  rises  and  white  clouds  fly,  the  grass  and  trees  wither, 
geese  go  south  —  sadly  he  remembers  his  love  and  the  pagoda- 
boat  on  the  Fen  River.  That,  particularly,  is  the  singular 
validity  of  the  Chinese  poems  translated  by  Mr.  Waley;  page 
after  page  they  are  the  mirror  of  the  splintered  colours,  the 
tragic  apprehensions  and  sharp  longing,  of  a  later  unhappi- 
ness.  Already,  then,  China  was  old  and  civilized,  its  philoso 
phers  had  analysed  hope  into  maxims  of  stoical  and  serene  con 
duct;  and  its  poetry  was  written  in  an  unsurpassable  dignity  of 
repression. 

The  latest  imagery,  nothing  in  the  world  if  not  visual  in 
perceptions  of  utmost  fragile  truth,  is  not  so  acute  in  observa 
tion  and  artifice  as  the  song,  in  the  second  century,  of  Sung 
Tzu-hou.  (She  sees  the  fruit  trees  in  blossom  and,  forgetting 
about  her  silkworms,  begins  to  pluck  the  branches.)  And  no 
contemporary,  it  may  be  no  Western,  poet  has  approached  the 
reflective  cadences,  the  refrain  of  memory  steeped  in  longing, 
that  gives  the  lines  of  Po  Chii-i  their  magic  semblance  to  the 


26  THE   CHINESE   POEMS 

wistful  and  fleet  realities  of  mind.  He  has,  but  in  greater  de 
gree,  Verlaine's  power  to  invest  lovely  frivolities  with  per 
manence;  an  ability  Arthur  Symons  occasionally  brushed. 
His  Old  Harp,  of  cassia- wood  and  jade  stops  and  rose-red 
strings,  neglected  for  the  Ch'iang  flute  and  the  Ch'in  flageolet, 
vibrates  with  a  tenderness  of  ancient  forgotten  melodies  be 
yond  any  evocation  of  the  Fetes  Gal  antes. 

The  poetry  of  those  dynasties  and  men,  however,  aside  from 
everything  else,  is  made  timeless,  for  us,  by  the  celebration 
of  its  women,  the  wives,  the  concubines,  the  dancers  of  Han- 
tan.  They  were,  objectively,  inconceivably  different  from  the 
woman  of  today;  yet  the  passions,  the  fidelity,  they  inspired, 
a  little  attenuated  by  the  dust  of  centuries,  are  precisely  the 
same  which  the  heart  retains.  The  Chinese  women  have  al 
ways  served  an  ideal  of  personal  beauty,  of  correct  formality, 
transcending  any  other:  in  May  their  satins  are  worked  with 
the  blossoms  of  spring  and  in  October  with  chrysanthemums. 
Socially  they  occupied  the  women's  gardens  —  a  position  now 
regarded  with  contempt  —  but  they  were  not,  because  of  that, 
inferior.  They  dominated  the  masculine  imagination  and 
provided,  together  with  music,  the  recompense  of  existence 
checkered  by  the  dark  squares  of  fate. 

There  are,  too,  as  many  wives  praised  as  dancers  summoned, 
as  much  constancy  as  there  is  incontinent  pleasure.  An  em 
peror  sends  to  all  parts  of  China  for  wizards,  hoping  that  they 
may  bring  back  the  spirit  of  his  mistress.  The  General  Su  An, 
absent  on  service,  begs  the  woman  with  whom  his  hair  was 
plaited  not  to  forget  the  time  of  their  love  and  pride.  Indeed, 
on  the  other  side,  in  the  poetry  there  is  a  marked  restraint :  the 
dancers  are  a  stiff  frieze  in  peacock  blues  and  orange  and 
gold  behind  the  fragrant  vapours  of  incense. 

All  is  tranquillized,  even  the  battle  pieces  are  softened  as 
though  in  distance,  and  the  satire,  often  pungent  and  univer 
sal,  is  subdued  by  the  realization  of  its  uselessness.  There  is 


JOSEPH   HERGESHEIMER  27 

wine,  in  cups  and  jars,  and  drunkenness:  Po  Chii-i  returns 
home,  leaning  heavily  on  a  friend,  at  yellow  dusk;  hut  there 
are  no  raised  voices  or  disturbance;  and,  soothed  by  the  swal 
lows  about  the  beams,  a  candle  flame  in  the  window,  the  moon 
crowning  the  tide,  he  hears  only  the  music  of  flutes  and  strings. 
There  are  roc  and  phoeniz  and  red  jungle  fowl,  ibis  and 
cranes  and  wild  swan  along  the  river;  women  with  bright  lips 
sway  to  the  silver  tapping  of  their  bells,  ladies,  long  of  limb, 
enter  with  side  glances  under  moth  eye-brows,  and  after  them 
others  with  faces  painted  white,  their  deep  sleeves  reeking 
with  scent.  But  they  are  only  momentary ;  they  are  left,  pluck 
ing  vainly  at  the  coats  of  those  who  will  not  stay,  and  the 
pure  dawn  holds  a  mango-bird  singing  among  flowers. 

They  are  poems  that  dwell  on  the  green  of  mulberry  trees 
and  fields  of  hemp,  on  the  oxen  in  the  village  streets,  the  burn 
ished  pools  of  carp,  the  lotus  banks  and  rice  furrows  and 
glittering  fret  of  snow.  And  there,  equally,  they  are  com 
pletely  in  the  mood,  or,  rather,  perfections  of  the  attempted 
mood,  of  the  present.  In  English  lyrical  poetry  alone,  and 
that,  except  for  John  Masefield,  the  beauty  of  yesterday  and 
not  today,  have  the  settings  of  life  been  so  beautifully  re 
fashioned.  An  ability  of  long  habited  lands;  for  its  power  is 
not  in  described  nature,  but  the  love  of  a  particular  soil  — 
feathery  bamboo  at  the  door,  a  hollow  of  daffodils,  are  sym 
bols  not  so  much  of  recurrent  seasons  as  of  a  deep-rooted  pas 
sionate  attachment  for  the  city  of  Lo-yang  or  for  the  Devon 
sod.  Without  sincerity  of  human  emotion  words  are  no  bet 
ter  than  broken  coloured  glass. 


WILLA   GATHER 
By  H.  L.  Mencken 

If  the  United  States  ever  becomes  civilized  and  develops  a 
literature,  no  doubt  the  Middle  West  will  be  the  scene  of  the 
prodigy.  The  two  coasts  are  washed  by  too  many  paralysing 
and  distracting  waves.  Boston,  after  three  hundred  years,  re 
mains  a  mere  suburb  of  London,  timorous,  respectable  and 
preposterous  —  a  sort  of  ninth-rate  compound  of  Putney  and 
Maida  Vale.  New  York  is  simply  a  bawdy  free  port,  with 
out  nationality  or  personality.  As  for  San  Francisco,  New 
Orleans,  Philadelphia  and  Baltimore,  once  so  saliently  indi 
vidual,  they  scarely  exist  any  longer,  save  for  banking,  po 
litical  and  census  purposes.  But  in  the  Middle  West  the  au 
thentic  Americano  is  still  a  recognizable  mammal,  and  shows 
all  his  congenital  spots,  particularly  upon  the  psyche.  More, 
he  has  become  introspective  and  a  bit  conscience-stricken,  and 
so  begins  to  analyse  and  anatomize  himself.  The  fruits  are 
"The  Spoon  River  Anthology,"  the  novels  of  Norris  and 
Dreiser,  Sherwood  Anderson's  terrific  tales,  the  Little  Theatre 
business,  Lindsay  and  his  uneasy  college  yells,  George  Ade 
and  his  murderous  satire,  Willa  Gather  and  her  poignant  evo 
cation  of  the  drama  of  the  prairie.  Count  out  Hergesheimer 
and  Cabell  and  you  will  scarcely  find  an  imaginative  writer 
doing  genuinely  sound  work  —  that  is,  an  imaginative  writer 
of  the  generation  still  squarely  on  its  legs  —  who  is  not  from 
beyond  the  Alleghenies.  Chicago  is  the  centre  of  the  new 
writing  fever,  as  it  is  the  centre  of  nearly  all  other  native 
fevers. 

28 


H.   L.   MENCKEN  29 

Four  or  five  years  ago,  though  she  already  had  a  couple  of 
good  books  behind  her,  Willa  Gather  was  scarcely  heard  of. 
When  she  was  mentioned  at  all,  it  was  as  a  talented  but  rather 
inconsequential  imitator  of  Mrs.  Wharton.  But  today  even 
campus-pump  critics  are  more  or  less  aware  of  her,  and  one 
hears  no  more  gabble  about  imitations.  The  plain  fact  is 
that  she  is  now  discovered  to  be  a  novelist  of  original  methods 
and  quite  extraordinary  capacities  —  penetrating  and  accurate 
in  observation,  delicate  in  feeling,  brilliant  and  charming  in 
manner,  and  full  of  a  high  sense  of  the  dignity  and  importance 
of  her  work.  Bit  by  bit,  patiently  and  laboriously,  she  has 
mastered  the  trade  of  the  novelist;  in  each  succeeding  book  she 
has  shown  an  unmistakable  advance.  Now,  at  last,  she  has 
arrived  at  such  a  command  of  all  the  complex  devices  and 
expedients  of  her  art  that  the  use  she  makes  of  them  is  quite 
concealed.  Her  style  has  lost  self -consciousness;  her  grasp  of 
form  has  become  instinctive;  her  drama  is  firmly  rooted  in  a 
sound  psychology;  her  people  relate  themselves  logically  to 
the  great  race  masses  that  they  are  parts  of.  In  brief,  she 
knows  her  business  thoroughly,  and  so  one  gets  out  of  reading 
her,  not  only  the  facile  joy  that  goes  with  every  good  story, 
but  also  the  vastly  higher  pleasure  that  is  called  forth  by  first- 
rate  craftsmanship. 

I  know  of  no  novel  that  makes  the  remote  folk  of  the  western 
farmlands  more  real  than  "  My  Antonia  "  makes  them,  and  I 
know  of  none  that  makes  them  seem  better  worth  knowing. 
Beneath  the  tawdry  surface  of  Middle  Western  barbarism  — 
so  suggestive,  in  more  than  one  way,  of  the  vast,  impenetrable 
barbarism  of  Russia  —  she  discovers  human  beings  bravely  em 
battled  against  fate  and  the  gods,  and  into  her  picture  of  their 
dull,  endless  struggle  she  gets  a  spirit  that  is  genuinely  heroic, 
and  a  pathos  that  is  genuinely  moving.  It  is  not  as  they  see 
themselves  that  she  depicts  them,  but  as  they  actually  are. 
And  to  representation  she  adds  something  more  —  something 


30  WILLA   GATHER 

that  is  quite  beyond  the  reach,  and  even  beyond  the  compre 
hension  of  the  average  novelist.  Her  poor  peasants  are  not 
simply  anonymous  and  negligible  hinds,  flung  by  fortune  into 
lonely,  inhospitable  wilds.  They  become  symbolical,  as,  say, 
Robinson  Crusoe  is  symbolical,  or  Faust,  or  Lord  Jim.  They 
are  actors  in  a  play  that  is  far  larger  than  the  scene  swept  by 
their  own  pitiful  suffering  and  aspiration.  They  are  actors 
in  the  grand  farce  that  is  the  tragedy  of  man. 

Setting  aside  certain  early  experiments  in  both  prose  and 
verse,  Miss  Gather  began  with  "  Alexander's  Bridge  "  in  1912. 
The  book  strongly  suggested  the  method  and  materials  of  Mrs. 
Wharton,  and  so  it  was  inevitably,  perhaps,  that  the  author 
should  be  plastered  with  the  Wharton  label.  I  myself,  ass- 
like,  helped  to  slap  it  on  —  though  with  prudent  reservations, 
now  comforting  to  contemplate.  The  defect  of  the  story  was 
one  of  locale  and  people:  somehow  one  got  the  feeling  that 
the  author  was  dealing  with  both  at  second-hand,  that  she 
knew  her  characters  a  bit  less  intimately  than  she  should  have 
known  them.  This  defect,  I  venture  to  guess,  did  not  escape 
her  own  eye.  At  all  events,  she  abandoned  New  England  in 
her  next  novel  for  the  Middle  West,  and  particularly  for  the 
Middle  West  of  the  great  immigrations  —  a  region  nearer  at 
hand,  and  infinitely  better  comprehended.  The  result  was  "  0 
Pioneers"  (1913),  a  book  of  very  fine  achievement  and  of 
even  finer  promise.  Then  came  "  The  Song  of  the  Lark " 
(1915)  — still  more  competent,  more  searching  and  of  even 
finer  promise.  Then  came  "The  Song  of  the  Lark"  (1915) 
—  still  more  competent,  more  searching  and  convincing,  better 
in  every  way.  And  then,  after  three  years,  came  "My  An- 
tonia,"  and  a  sudden  leap  forward.  Here,  at  last,  an  abso 
lutely  sound  technique  began  to  show  itself.  Here  was  a  novel 
planned  with  the  utmost  skill,  and  executed  in  truly  admirable 
fashion.  Here,  unless  I  err  gravely,  was  the  best  piece  of 
fiction  ever  done  by  a  woman  in  America. 


H.   L.   MENCKEN  31 

I  once  protested  to  Miss  Gather  that  her  novels  came  too  far 
apart  —  that  the  reading  public,  constantly  under  a  pressure  of 
new  work,  had  too  much  chance  to  forget  her.  She  was 
greatly  astonished.  "  How  could  I  do  any  more?  "  she  asked. 
"  I  work  all  the  time.  It  takes  three  years  to  write  a  novel." 
The  saying  somehow  clings  to  me.  There  is  a  profound  criti 
cism  of  criticism  in  it.  It  throws  a  bright  light  upon  the  dif 
ference  between  such  a  work  as  "  My  Antonia  "  and  such  a 
work  as  —  ...  But  I  have  wars  enough. 


VAN  VECHTEN 
By  Philip  Moeller 

Carl  Van  Vechten's  mental  gesture  is  more  or  less  unique  in 
American  literature.  His  work  has  about  as  much  relation 
to  what  might  be  considered  the  "  serious  classical  output  " 
of  writing  today  as  irresistible  footnotes  have  to  filling  an 
all  too  fulsome  history.  Whereas  the  bulk  of  the  intellectual 
page  of  contemporary  American  writing  is  for  the  most  part 
of  transitional  importance  Mr.  Van  Vechten's  essays  are  replete 
with  the  delightful  essence  of  what  is  importantly  transitory. 

As  a  critic  of  the  fine  arts  and  other  things,  his  range  is  not 
so  immense  as  it  is  extraordinary.  How  can  one  keep  on  the 
hat  of  appreciation  before  the  work  of  a  writer  who  impro 
vises  as  adroitly  about  cats  as  about  prima  donne,  who  in 
one  book  tells  the  only  authoritative  story  of  the  music  of 
Spain,  in  another  makes  or  breaks  the  fame  of  some  famous 
player  and  in  still  another  goes  far  afield  to  bring  into  the 
glow  of  his  praise  some  hidden  personage  from  some  remote 
and  delicious  byway  of  life  and  letters?  If  he  mounts  into 
his  garret  to  unopen  ancient  chests  and  write  of  olden  things, 
he  doesn't  neglect  at  the  same  time  to  look  from  his  high 
window  at  what  is  going  on  about  him.  In  the  midst  of  the 
gorgeous  hurry  of  New  York  he  hears  the  quieter  melody  of 
far  off  places.  He  is  a  cosmopolitan  critic  and  at  the  same 
time  a  critic  of  cosmopolis. 

Music  is  never  very  far  from  his  pages.  He  is  acknowl 
edged  as  one  of  the  most  important  of  the  musical  critics  in 

32 


PHILIP   MOELLER  33 

America  because  he  has  had  the  wise  wisdom  of  not  writing 
about  music  at  all.  He  is  one  of  the  few  musically  informed 
who  has  sensibly  refrained  from  any  vacant  analysis  of  tonal 
mysteries,  one  of  the  very  few  indeed  who  realizes  the  futility 
of  filling  soundless  books  with  sounding  but  empty  treatises  on 
sound.  He  has  had  the  rare  and  modest  grace  of  letting  music 
sing  or  play  or  "  symphonize  "  for  itself.  His  chief  concern 
has  been  with  interpretations  and  interpreters.  Taking  the 
one  or  the  other  as  his  theme  he  has  written  critical  variations 
and  the  result  has  been  critical  creation. 

His  work  has  the  quality  of  rare,  spontaneous  and  intriguing 
talk.  There  is  about  his  writing  an  air  of  delicate  and  urbane 
gossip,  a  knowledge  and  thought  that  does  not  take  itself  in 
any  sense  or  at  any  moment  as  too  profound  to  admit  of  a 
digression  into  gaiety.  It  is  not  so  much  what  he  knows  as 
the  very  particular  and  personal  way  in  which  he  knows  it. 
His  one  cliche  is  a  desperate  detestation  of  all  critical  cliches. 
The  woof  of  his  thought  is  a  charming  destroyal  of  all  ac 
cepted  standards,  the  web  of  his  thinking  is  a  delicate  but 
constructive  anarchy.  When  he  builds  up  we  are  grateful, 
when  he  tears  down  we  are  equally  grateful  because  he  always 
leaves  behind  him  the  intricate,  infernally  informed  and  fas 
cinating  machinery  of  his  annihilation. 


ON  H.  L.   MENCKEN 
By  George  Jean  Nathan 

In  the  monthly  department,  "  Repetition  Generate, "  which 
we  jointly  conduct  in  The  Smart  Set  Magazine.,  there  was  some 
months  ago  incorporated  the  following  paragraph: 

"  When  one  of  us,  in  the  course  of  his  critical  writings, 
indulges  himself  in  polite  words  about  the  other,  it  is  a 
common  antic  of  the  newspaper  literary  supplement  pro 
fessors  to  observe  that  this  encomium  is  merely  by  way 
of  mutual  log-rolling,  that  it  is  based  upon  no  sounder 
critical  ground  than  our  friendship  for  each  other  and 
our  commercial  alliance,  and  that  it  is  perhaps  not  hon 
estly  believed  in  by  either  the  one  or  the  other.  This,  of 
course,  is  idiotic.  We  are  friends  and  partners,  not  be 
cause  we  admire  each  other's  beauty,  or  each  other's  con 
versation,  or  each  other's  waistcoats  or  wives,  but  because 
we  respect  each  other  professionally,  because  each  to  the 
other  seems  to  know  his  work  in  the  world,  and  how  to 
do  it,  and  how  to  do  it  —  it  may  be  —  just  a  little  bit 
better  than  the  next  nearest  man.  This,  obviously,  is  the 
soundest  of  all  bases  for  friendship.  It  is  not  friendship 
that  makes  men  approve  one  another;  it  is  mutual  ap 
proval  that  makes  them  friends." 

Let  me  add  a  word  about  Mencken  in  particular.  I  respect 
him,  and  am  his  friend,  because  he  is  one  of  the  very  few 
Americans  I  know  who  is  entirely  free  of  cheapness,  toadyism 

34 


n 

M 


GEORGE   JEAN   NATHAN  35 

and  hypofHs/.  In  close  association  with  him  for  more  than 
twelve  years,  I  have  yet  to  catch  him  in  a  lie  against  himself, 
or  in  a  compromise  with  his  established  faiths.  There  have 
been  times  when  we  have  quarrelled  and  times,  I  dare  say, 
when  we  have  hated  each  other:  but  when  we  have  met  again 
it  has  been  always  on  a  ground  of  approval  and  friendship 
made  doubly  secure  and  doubly  substantial  by  the  honesty  of 
his  point  of  view  (however  wrong  I  have  held  it),  by  the 
wholesomeness  of  his  hatred,  and  by  his  frank  and  ever  self- 
doubting  conduct  at  our  several  Appomattoxes. 

Perhaps  no  man  has  ever  been  more  accurately  mirrored  by 
his  writings  than  this  man.  He  has  never,  so  far  as  I  know, 
written  a  single  line  that  he  hasn't  believed.  He  has  never 
sold  a  single  adjective  —  and  there  have  been  times  when 
opulent  temptations  have  dangled  before  him.  And  on  certain 
of  these  occasions  he  could  have  used  the  money.  There  may 
be  times  when  he  is  wrong  and  when  his  opinions  are  biased  — 
I  believed  that  there  are  not  a  few  such  times  —  yet  if  he  is 
wrong,  he  is  wrong  honestly,  and  if  he  is  biased,  he  neither 
knows  it  in  his  own  mind  nor  feels  it  in  his  own  heart.  He  is 
the  best  fighter  I  have  ever  met.  And  he  is  the  fairest,  the 
cleanest,  and  the  most  relentless. 

But  does  he  accept  himself  with  forefinger  to  temple,  with 
professorial  wrinkles,  as  an  Uplifting  Force,  a  Tonic  Influ 
ence?  Not  on  your  ball-room  socks!  No  critic  has  ever 
snickered  at  him  as  loudly  and  effectively  as  he  snickers  at 
himself.  "  What  do  you  think  of  your  new  book?  "  I  usu 
ally  ask  him  when  he  has  finished  one.  And  his  reply  gener 
ally  is,  "  It's  got  some  good  stuff  in  it  —  and  a  lot  of  cheese. 
What  the  hell's  the  use  of  writing  such  a  book,  anyway?  My 
next  one  .  .  ." 

Life  to  him  is  a  sort  of  Luna  Park,  and  he  gets  the  same 
sort  of  innocent,  idiotic  fun  out  of  it.  He  would  rather  drink 
a  glass  of  good  beer  than  write;  he  would  rather  talk  to  a 


36  ON   H.   L.   MENCKEN 

pretty  girl  than  read;  he  would  rather  wallop  the  keys  of  a 
piano  than  think;  he  would  rather  eat  a  well-cooked  dinner 
than  philosophize.  His  work,  which  so  clearly  reflects  him 
spiritually,  represents  him  equally  clearly  in  helpless  revolt 
against  his  corporeal  self. 

This,  a  snapshot  of  Henry  Mencken,  for  ever  applying  the 
slapstick  to  his  own  competence,  constantly  sceptical  of  his 
own  talents,  and  ever  trying  vainly  to  run  away  from  the  pleas 
ure  that  his  temperament  rebelliously  mocks.  I  am  happy  to 
know  him,  for  knowing  him  has  made  the  world  a  gayer  place 
and  work  a  more  diverting  pastime.  I  am  glad  to  be  his  part 
ner,  his  collaborator,  his  co-editor,  his  drinking  companion, 
and  his  friend.  For  after  all  these  many  years  of  our  friend 
ship  and  professional  alliance,  there  is  only  one  thing  that 
I  can  hold  against  him.  For  ten  years  he  has  worn  the  damn 
dest  looking  overcoat  that  I've  ever  seen. 


A   SKETCH 
By  Sidney  L.  Nyburg 

Many  years  ago  it  was  privilege  to  know  a  sturdy,  forthright 
Judge  who  had,  in  his  own  youth,  faced  a  jury  upon  a  charge 
of  murder.  He  had  attempted  no  shifty,  technical  defence, 
but  admitted  frankly  that  he  had  killed  a  man,  and  had  the 
best  of  reasons  for  having  done  so.  The  jury  agreed  with  him 
and  set  him  free,  to  sentence  many  another  less  fortunate 
creature,  during  his  long  and  honoured  career  on  the  bench. 
I  remember  how  often  I  used  to  wonder  as  I  watched  him 
meting  out  punishments  whether  he  ever  meditated  upon  his 
own  narrow  escape.  If  he  did,  it  never  seemed  to  temper  his 
severity.  He  was  there  to  deal  out  what  he  felt  sure  was  jus 
tice,  and  the  closed  pages  of  his  own  personal  history  had 
nothing  at  all  to  do  with  his  appraisement  of  the  degrees  of 
guilt  or  innocence  of  the  culprits  who  stood  before  him. 

Every  one  who,  like  myself,  has  committed  the  crime  of 
authorship  and  afterwards  presumes  to  sit  in  judgment  upon 
the  art  of  fiction  is  in  a  position  somewhat  analogous  to  that 
of  my  old  friend,  the  Judge.  It  is  true  my  own  sins  of  this 
character  have  been  few  and  obscure.  Nevertheless,  they 
must  have  been  marked  by  the  Recording  Angel,  and  under 
scored  with  a  sinister  emphasis,  since  the  Recording  Angel  has 
also  for  many  generations  coquetted  with  the  business  of  pro 
fessional  book-making. 

And  my  plea  must  be  precisely  that  of  this  same  militant 
Judge.  After  all,  it's  not  a  bad  excuse.  Today's  criminal  is 

37 


38  A  SKETCH 

no  less  red-handed  because  of  the  indelible  stain  we  succeed 
in  hiding  so  neatly  under  our  own  well-fitting  glove. 

One  can  afford  carelessly  to  ignore  the  cheap  jibes  of  those 
who  insist  on  the  obvious  and  meaningless  taunt :  "  Why 
don't  you  write  as  you  say  you  would  have  other  American 
fictionists  write?  "  with  the  equally  obvious  retort  that,  if  any 
author  really  succeeded  in  writing  the  book  of  which  he 
dreamed,  it  would  mean  no  more  than  that  his  dream  was  a 
tawdry,  worthless  thing. 

It  is  enough  for  me,  at  least,  to  know  what  I  wish  to  em 
body  in  my  own  writings,  no  matter  how  far  short  of  success 
I  may  fall  in  the  endeavour,  or  how  certainly  my  adherence  to 
my  own  beliefs  may  cost  me  the  interest  of  a  public  in  whose 
commendation  I  would  find  a  healthy,  human  enjoyment,  pro 
vided  always,  I  could  have  it  without  compromise. 

I  believe,  then,  that  fiction  is  something  vastly  more  than  a 
medium  of  amusement.  I  believe  it  has  been,  in  all  countries 
and  ages,  that  art  best  fitted  to  interpret  life  to  the  human  be 
ings  who  share  that  life.  I  think  it  can  be  and  should  be 
made  a  revelation  of  man's  emotion,  impulse  and  character. 
To  me,  it  seems  that  any  and  every  phase  of  human  life,  any 
and  every  choice  of  scene  and  dramatis  personae  is  worthy  of 
the  fictionist's  study,  and  his  only  inflexible  obligation  is  to 
paint  life  as  he  sees  it  instead  of  sophisticating  his  tints  and 
outlines  to  portray  what  he  would  prefer  seeing,  or  to  depict 
what  he  thinks  his  readers  would  like  to  see,  or,  worst  of  all, 
to  prove  some  pet  thesis.  I  hold  it  as  fundamental  that,  if 
one  can  give  an  understanding  picture  of  any  phase  of  life, 
no  matter  how  trivial  it  may  be  intrinsically,  he  has  contrib 
uted  something  to  the  comprehension  of  the  most  important 
of  all  things  —  Men  and  Women. 

By  his  very  choice  of  fiction  as  his  mode  of  expression,  the 
author  is  committed  to  some  sense  of  form.  He  has  acknowl- 


SIDNEY   L.   NYBURG  39 

edged  also  the  duty  of  telling  some  kind  of  a  story  which 
shall  not  prove  unbearably  dull  to  the  sensitive  and  alert 
reader.  If  he  has  no  story  at  all,  he  is  an  essayist  in  an  ill- 
fitting  disguise.  If  he  cannot  or  will  not  endeavour  to  in 
terest  some  portion  of  the  public,  he  might  as  well  keep  a 
diary  and  secure  it  under  lock  and  key;  but  the  writer  holds 
himself  and  his  art  too  cheaply  who  makes  no  demands  what 
ever  upon  his  reader.  A  fictionist's  public  has  no  right  to  a 
predigested  diet,  or  to  a  menu  skilfully  arranged  to  give  it 
only  what  it  happens  to  enjoy. 

Unless  the  author  has  something  actually  craving  utterance, 
there  is  no  excuse  for  his  intrusion  into  a  world  already  well 
provided  with  printed  matter,  and  if  he  feels  this  impulse  for 
expression  he  cannot  satisfy  it  if  he  expresses  the  conception 
of  his  critics,  his  publishers,  or  that  inarticulate  abstraction 
called  the  public.  If  speaking  his  own  thought,  the  public 
will  not  buy  his  wares,  then  it  must  go  without  them,  and  he 
must  earn  his  bread  in  another  fashion.  But  if  this  public 
chooses  to  traffic  with  him  at  all,  it  must  do  so  upon  his  terms 
and  at  the  price  of  some  little  effort  upon  its  own  part.  If 
the  reader  will  expend  no  such  energy  to  gain  a  new  idea  or  a 
new  point  of  view  regarding  those  ideas,  then  the  thing  he  at 
tempts  to  assimulate  so  easily  will,  after  all,  profit  him  noth 
ing.  The  author  is  not  the  servant  of  his  public.  He  is  a 
man  with  something  to  say.  If  passers-by  choose  to  listen  — 
good.  If  they  prefer  to  ignore  him,  he  may  not  therefore  seek 
some  more  alluring  jingle  of  words  to  catch  their  fancy.  If 
he  descends  to  such  devices  he  is  a  mere  brother  of  the  mounte 
bank.  He  must  paint  truth  as  he  sees  it  even  if  he  realizes 
that  other  and  better  men  cannot  accept  his  pictures  as  truth. 
It  is  not  his  function  to  reproduce  other  men's  images,  whether 
better  or  worse  than  his  own.  He  must  be  austere  to  deny  him 
self  the  luxury  of  preaching.  If  his  work  is  what  it  ought 


40  A   SKETCH 

to  be,  the  reader  may  be  stimulated  to  fashion  out  his  own 
deductions,  but  the  fictionist  who  sets  out  to  point  a  moral, 
usually  ends  most  immorally  by  distorting  a  character. 

Last  of  all  —  for  here  lies  the  vital  differences  between  the 
work  of  a  mere  honest  craftsman  and  a  true  artist, —  I  should 
like  to  hope  that  in  my  pages,  I  might  now  and  then  capture 
some  gleam  of  beauty  —  beauty  of  form,  or  of  thought,  or  of 
comprehending  insight.  For  without  this,  fiction  is  a  thing  of 
effort,  dead  and  mechanical,  however  well  intentioned.  But 
beauty  is  the  gift  of  the  capricious  gods,  and  no  one  by  taking 
thought,  or  by  the  exercise  of  weary  toil  can  feel  sure  of  count 
ing  it  among  his  treasures. 


CHANT   OF   THE   NURSES 
A  MODERN  GREEK  FOLK-SONG 

Translated  from  the  French  Version  of  Antonin  Proust 
By  Eunice  Tietjens 

Sleep,  my  child !  For  if  you  sleep  you  shall  have  three  cities, 
three  villages  and  three  monasteries.  In  the  cities  you 
shall  command,  in  the  villages  you  shall  walk  at  leisure, 
in  the  monasteries  you  shall  pray. 

Sleep,  my  child !  For  if  you  do  not  wish  to  command,  nor  to 
walk  at  leisure,  nor  to  pray,  sleep  shall  carry  you  away 
to  the  vineyards  of  the  Sultan.  The  Sultan  shall  give 
you  grapes,  the  Moons  of  the  Harem  shall  give  you 
roses  and  the  odalisques  shall  make  you  cakes  of  se 
same. 

Sleep,  my  child,  sleep! 


41 


A   MEMORY    OF   YPRES1 
By  H.  M.  Tomlinson 

As  for  the  city  itself  you  propably  know  all  about  it,  and 
wish  you  had  never  heard  of  it.  As  for  me  I  had  been  in  it 
so  often  that  my  mouth  didn't  get  so  dry  on  wet  days,  when 
walking  up  that  Sinister  Street  from  Suicide  Corner  to  what 
was  once  the  Cloth  Hall.  There  I  was,  one  summer  day,  in  a 
silence  like  deafness,  amid  ruins  which  might  have  been  in 
Central  Asia,  and  I,  the  last  man  on  earth,  contemplating  them. 
There  was  something  bumping  somewhere,  but  it  wasn't  in 
Ypres,  and  no  notice  is  ever  taken  in  Flanders  of  what  doesn't 
bump  near  you.  So  I  sat  on  the  disrupted  pedestal  of  a  for 
gotten  building  and  smoked,  and  wondered  why  I  was  in  the 
city  of  Ypres,  and  why  there  was  a  war,  and  why  I  was  a  fool. 

It  was  a  lovely  day,  and  looking  up  at  the  sky  over  what 
used  to  be  a  school  dedicated  to  the  gentle  Jesus,  which  is 
just  by  the  place  where  one  of  the  seventeen-inchers  has  blown 
a  forty-foot  hole,  I  saw  a  little  round  cloud  suddenly  appear 
in  the  blue,  and  then  another,  and  then  lots  in  a  bunch,  the 
sort  of  soft  little  cloudlets  on  which  Renaissance  cherubs  rest 
their  chubby  hands,  and  with  fat  faces  on  one  side  consider 
mortals  from  cemetery  monuments.  Then  came  down  dull 
concussions  from  the  blue,  and  right  over  head  I  made  out  two 
Boche  'planes.  A  shell  case  banged  the  pave  near  me  and 
went  on  to  make  a  white  scar  on  a  wall.  Some  invisible  things 
were  whizzing  about.  One's  own  shrapnel  is  often  tactless. 

1  This  paper  appeared  in  The  Clarion  [London]  but  has  never  before 
been  published  in  the  United  States. 

42 


H.   M.   TOMLINSON  43 

There  was  a  cellar  and  I  got  into  it,  and  while  the  intruders 
were  overhead  I  smoked  and  gazed  at  the  contents  of  the  cellar 
—  the  wreckage  of  a  bicycle,  a  child's  chemise,  one  old  boot,  a 
jam  pot,  and  a  dead  cat.  Owing  to  an  unsatisfactory  smell 
of  many  things  I  got  out  soon  and  sat  on  the  pedestal  again. 

A  figure  in  khaki  came  straight  at  me  across  the  square, 
his  boots  sounding  like  the  deliberate  approach  of  Fate  in 
solitude.  It  stopped,  saluted,  and  said,  "  I  shoodden  stay  'ere, 
sir.  They've  been  gitten  sights,  and  they  gen'ally  begin  about 
now.  Sure  to  drop  some  'ere." 

At  that  moment  a  mournful  cry  went  over  us,  followed  by  a 
crash  in  Sinister  Street.  My  way  home!  Some  masonry  fell 
in  sympathy  from  the  Cloth  Hall. 

"Better  come  with  me  till  it  blows  over,  sir.  I've  got  a 
dug-out  near." 

We  turned  off  sharp,  and  not  really  before  it  was  time  to 
move,  into  a  part  of  the  city  unknown  to  me.  There  were 
some  unsettling  noises,  worse  no  doubt  because  of  the  echoes, 
behind  us;  but  it  is  not  dignified  to  hurry  when  you  look  like 
an  officer.  You  ought  to  fill  your  pipe.  I  did  so,  and  stopped 
to  light  it.  Once  I  paused  in  drawing  it,  checked  by  the 
splitting  open  of  the  earth  in  the  first  turning  to  the  right  and 
the  second  to  the  left,  or  thereabouts. 

"  That's  a  big  'un,  sir,"  said  my  soldier,  who  then  took  half 
a  cigarette  from  his  ear,  and  a  light  from  my  match:  we  then 
resumed  our  little  promenade.  By  an  old  motor  bus,  whose 
windows  were  boards,  whose  colour  was  War-Office  neuter,  but 
who,  for  memory's  sake,  still  bore  on  its  forehead  the  legend 
"  Liverpool  Street,"  my  soldier  hurried  slightly,  and  was  then 
swallowed  up.  I  was  alone.  While  looking  about  for  pos 
sible  openings,  I  heard  his  voice  under  the  road,  and  then  saw 
a  dark  mouth,  low  in  a  broken  wall,  and  crawled  in.  Finding 
my  way  by  touching  the  dark  with  my  forehead  and  my  shins, 
I  found  a  lower  smell  of  graves  hollowed  by  a  candle  and  a 


44  A  MEMORY  OF  YPRES 

bottle.  And  there  was  my  soldier,  who  provided  me  with  an 
empty  case,  and  himself  another,  and  we  had  the  candle  be 
tween  us.  On  the  table  was  a  tin  of  condensed  milk  suffering 
from  shock,  and  some  documents  under  a  shell-nose.  Pictures 
of  partly  clad  ladies  began  to  dimmer  from  the  walls  through 
the  gloom.  Now  and  then  the  cellar  trembled. 

"Where's  that  old  'bus  come  from?"  I  asked. 

"  Ah !  the  pore  old  bitch,  sir,"  said  the  soldier  sadly. 

"  Yes,  of  course,  but  what's  the  matter  with  her?  " 

"  She's  done  in,  sir.  But  she's  done  her  bit,  she  has,"  said 
my  soldier,  changing  the  crossing  of  his  legs.  "  Ah !  little  did 
she  think  when  I  used  to  take  'er  acrorse  Ludgit  Circus  what  a 
'ell  of  a  time  I'd  'ave  to  give  'er  some  day.  She's  a  good  ole 
thing.  She's  done  'er  bit.  She  won't  see  Liverpole  Street 
no  more.  If  Milertery  Medals  wasn't  so  cheap,  she  ought  to 
'ave  one,  she  ought." 

The  cellar  had  a  shocking  fit  of  the  palsy,  and  the  candle 
light  shuddered  and  flattened. 

"The  ruddy  swine  are  ruddy  wild  today.  Suthin's  upset 
'em.  'Ow  long  will  this  ruddy  war  last,  sir?  "  asked  the  sol 
dier,  slightly  plaintive. 

"  I  know,"  I  said.  "  It's  filthy.  But  what  about  your  old 
'bus?  " 

"Ah!  What  about  'er.  She  ain't  'arf  'ad  a  time.  She's 
seen  enough  war  to  make  a  general  want  to  go  home  and  shell 
peas  the  rest  of  'is  life.  What  she  knows  about  it  would  make 
all  them  clever  fellers  in  London  who  reckon  they  know  all 
about  it  turn  green  if  they  heard  a  door  slam.  Learned  it 
all  in  one  jolly  old  day  too.  Learned  it  sudden,  like  you 
gen'ally  learns  things  you  don't  forgit  afterwards. 

"And  I  reckon  I  'adn't  anything  to  find  out,  either,  not 
after  Antwerp.  It  only  shows—  Don't  tell  me,  sir,  war 
teaches  yer  a  lot.  It  only  shows  fools  what  they  don't  know 
but  might  'ave  guessed  if  they  'adn't  been  fools. 


H.M.TOMLINSON  45 

"  You  know  Poperhinge.  Well,  my  trip  was  between  there 
an'  Wipers,  gen'ally.  The  stones  on  the  road  was  enough  to 
make  her  shed  nuts  and  bolts  by  the  pint.  But  it  was  a  quiet 
journey,  take  it  all  round,  and  after  a  cup  o'  tea  at  Wipers  I 
used  to  roll  home  to  the  garage.  War?  It  was  easier  than 
the  Putney  route.  Wipers  was  full  of  civilians.  Shops  all 
open.  Estaminets  and  nice  young  things.  I  used  to  like  war 
then  better  than  a  school  boy  likes  Sat'd'y  afternoons.  It 
wasn't  work  and  it  wasn't  play.  And  there  was  no  rule  you 
couldn't  break  if  you  'ad  sense  enough  to  come  to  attention 
smart  an'  answer  quick.  Yes,  sir. 

"  I  knew  so  little  about  war  then  that  I'm  sorry  I  never 
tried  to  be  a  milertary  expert.  But  my  education  was  neg 
lected.  I  can  only  write  picture  postcards.  It's  er  pity. 
Well,  one  day  it  wasn't  like  that.  Not  by  a  damn  sight.  It 
dropped  on  Wipers,  and  it  wasn't  like  that  a  bit.  It  was 
bloody  different.  I  wasn't  frightened,  but  my  little  inside  was. 

"  First  thing  was  the  gassed  soldiers  coming  through.  Their 
faces  were  green  and  blue,  and  their  uniforms  a  funny  colour. 
I  didn't  know  what  was  the  matter  with  'em,  and  that  put  the 
wind  up,  for  I  didn't  want  to  look  like  that.  What  the  'ell 
was  up?  We  could  hear  a  fine  rumpus  in  the  Salient.  The 
civies  were  frightened,  but  they  stuck  to  their  homes.  Nothing 
was  happening  there  then,  and  while  nothing  is  happening  it's 
hard  to  believe  it's  going  to.  After  seeing  a  Zouave  crawl  by 
with  his  tongue  hanging  out,  and  his  eyes  like  a  choked  dog's, 
and  his  face  the  colour  of  a  mottled  cucumber,  I  said  good-bye 
to  the  nice  lady  where  I  was.  It  was  time  to  see  about  it. 

"  And  fact  is  I  didn't  'ave  much  time  to  think  about  it ;  what 
with  gettin'  men  out  and  gettin'  reinforcements  in.  Trip 
after  trip. 

"  But  I  shall  never  have  a  night  again  like  that  was  till  all 
I've  ever  done  is  called  out  loud,  and  I  get  thumbs  down  on  the 
last  day.  Believe  me,  it  was  a  howler.  I  steered  the  old  'bus, 


46  A   MEMORY   OF   YPRES 

but  it  was  done  right  by  accident.  It  was  certainly  touch  and 
go.  I  shoodden  'ave  thought  a  country  town,  even  in  war, 
could  look  like  Wipers  did  that  night. 

"  It  was  gettin'  dark  on  my  last  trip  in,  and  we  barged  into 
all  the  world  gettin'  out  —  and  gettin'  out  quick.  And  the 
guns  and  reinforcements  were  comin'  up  behind  me.  There's 
no  other  road  in  or  out,  as  you  know.  I  forgot  to  tell  you 
that  night  comin'  on  didn't  matter  much,  because  the  place 
was  alight,  and  the  sky  was  bursting  with  shrapnel,  and  the 
high  explosives  were  falling  in  the  houses  on  fire,  and  spread 
ing  the  red  stuff  like  fireworks.  It  was  like  driving  into  a 
volcano.  The  gun  ahead  of  me  went  over  a  child,  but  only 
its  mother  and  me  saw  that,  and  a  house  in  flames  ahead  of 
the  gun  got  a  shell  inside  it,  and  fell  on  the  crowd  that  was 
mixed  up  with  the  army  traffic. 

"  When  I  got  to  a  side  turning  I  went  up,  and  hopped  off 
to  see  how  my  little  lady  was  getting  on.  A  shell  had  got  her 
estaminet.  The  curtains  were  flying  in  little  flames  through 
the  place  where  the  windows  used  to  be.  Inside,  the  counter 
was  upside  down,  and  she  was  lying  among  the  glass  and  bot 
tles  on  the  floor.  I  couldn't  do  anything  for  her.  And  further 
up  the  street  my  headquarters  was  a  heap  of  bricks,  and  the 
houses  on  both  sides  of  it  alight.  No  good  looking  there  for 
any  more  orders. 

"  Being  left  to  myself,  I  began  to  take  notice.  While  you're 
on  the  job  you  just  do  it,  and  don't  see  much  of  anything  else, 
except  with  the  corner  of  yer  eye.  I've  never  'card  such  a 
row,  shells  bursting,  houses  falling,  and  the  place  was  chock 
full  of  smoke,  and  men  you  couldn't  see  were  shouting  and 
women  and  children,  wherever  they  were,  turning  you  cold  to 
hear  them. 

"  It  was  like  the  end  of  the  world.  Time  for  me  to  hop  it. 
I  backed  the  old  'bus  and  turned  her,  and  started  off.  Shells 
flashed  in  front  and  behind  and  overhead,  and,  thinks  I,  next 


H.   M.   TOMLINSON  47 

time  you're  bound  to  get  caught  in  this  shower.  Then  I  found 
my  transport  officer,  'is  face  going  in  and  out  in  the  red  light. 
'E  was  smoking  a  cigarette,  and  'e  told  me  my  job.  'E  gave 
me  my  cargo.  I  just  'ad  to  take  'em  out  and  dump  'em. 
'  Where  shall  I  take  'em,  sir?  ' 

" '  Take  'em  out  of  this,  take  'em  anywhere,  take  'em  where 
you  damn  like,  Jones,  take  'em  to  hell,  but  take  'em  away,' 
says  he. 

"  So  I  loaded  up.  Wounded  Tommies,  gassed  Arabs,  some 
women  and  children,  and  a  few  lunatics,  genuine  cock-eyed 
loonies,  from  the  asylum.  The  shells  chased  us  out.  One 
biffed  us  over  on  to  the  two  rear  wheels,  but  we  dropped  back 
on  four  on  the  top  speed.  Several  times  I  bumped  over  soft 
things  in  the  road,  and  felt  rather  sick.  We  got  out  o'  the 
town  with  the  shrapnel  a  bit  in  front  all  the  way.  Then  the 
old  'bus  jibbed  for  a  bit.  Every  time  a  shell  burst  near  us 
the  lunatics  screamed  and  laughed  and  clapped  their  hands, 
and  trod  on  the  wounded.  But  I  got  'er  going  again.  I  got  'er 
to  Poperhinge.  Two  soldiers  died  on  the  way,  and  a  lunatic 
had  fallen  out  somewhere,  and  a  baby  was  born  in  the  'bus; 
and  me  with  no  ruddy  conductor  or  midwife. 

"  I  met  our  chaplain,  and  says  he:  '  Jones,  you  want  a  drink. 
Come  with  me  and  have  a  Scotch  syrup.'  That  was  a  good 
drink.  I  'ad  the  best  part  of  'arf  a  bottle  without  water,  an' 
it  done  me  no  'arm.  Next  mornin'  I  found  I'd  put  in  the  night 
on  the  parson's  bed  in  me  boots,  and  'e  was  asleep  on  the 
floor." 


ON    THE    ADVANTAGES    OF    BEING    BORN 
ON   THE   SEVENTEENTH    OF   JUNE 

[To  ALFRED  A.  KNOPF,  JR.] 
By  Carl  Van  Vechten 

The  disadvantages  of  being  born  on  any  day  at  all  are  suf 
ficiently  obvious,  and  every  mortal  must  occasionally  exper 
ience  moments  of  envy  for  those  vice  elementals  who  exist  in 
the  eldritch  fourth  dimension  outside  the  limits  of  Time  and 
Space.  But  there  are  certain  days  on  which  it  seems  par 
ticularly  unpleasant  and  discouraging  to  be  born:  Christ's 
birthday,  for  instance,  whose  sharers  must  face  the  fate  of 
either  receiving  their  Christmas  presents  on  their  birthday  or 
else  their  birthday  presents  on  Christmas,  and  the  twenty- 
ninth  of  February,  which  by  some  is  not  regarded  as  a  day  at 
all.  Any  cold  day  in  Winter  is  sufficiently  cheerless  in  a  land 
where  Rum  Punch,  Mulled  Claret,  and  Tom  and  Jerry  are  not 
to  be  readily  procured;  any  hot  day  in  Summer  is  scarcely 
suitable  for  celebration  in  a  country  which  prohibits  the  sale 
of  Amer  Picon,  Sloe  Gin,  and  White  Absinthe.  No  one  really 
wants  to  be  born  in  the  Spring,  which  is  a  period  of  hope,  or 
in  the  Autumn,  which  is  a  season  of  death  and  depression.  I 
could,  indeed,  find  many  reasons  for  not  being  born  on  three 
hundred  and  sixty-four  days.  Fortunately  there  is  one  day  in 
every  year  which  is  in  every  way  worthy  of  being  a  birthday. 

I  say  in  every  way,  and  then  I  remember  that  John  Wesley 
was  born  on  this  day  .  .  .  but  that,  after  all,  was  probably  an 
accident.  Nor  do  I  linger  over  the  name  of  Charles  Gounod, 

48 


CARL  VAN  VECHTEN  49 

but  the  birth  of  Igor  Stravinsky  on  June  17  was  pre-ordained. 
There  have  been  those  who  have  chosen  this  as  a  suitable  date 
on  which  to  die:  Joseph  Addison  on  June  17,  1719,  and 
Henrietta  Sontag  (in  Mexico),  on  June  17,  1854.  The  Battle 
of  Bunker  Hill  was  fought  on  June  17,  1775,  and  the  Battle  of 
Waterloo  on  June  18  (not  1775!)  so  that  the  celebrated  ball 
held  on  its  eve,  described  so  vividly  in  Vanity  Fair  fell  on  the 
seventeenth.  And  Abraham  Lincoln  was  nominated  on  this 
day  in  1860. 

The  Saints  of  the  day  bear  fascinating,  if  somewhat  un 
familiar,  names:  Nicander  and  Marcian,  Saint  Prior,  Saint 
Avitus,  Saint  Botolph,  Saint  Molingus  or  Dairchilla.  I  like  to 
think  that  some  child  carries  one  of  these  names,  or  that  sev 
eral  children  respectively  carry  them  all. 

The  Stars  are  friendly.  Gemini,  the  Twins,  of  the  Air 
Triplicity,  are  in  power.  Mercury  is  the  governing  planet. 
The  Astral  Colours  are  Red,  White,  and  Blue,  which  permit 
the  child  the  choice  of  several  patriotisms  or  gently  dedicate 
him  to  polyglottism.  The  cabalistic  stones  of  the  day  are  blue, 
beryl,  acquamarine,  lapis  lazuli,  chalcydony,  and  sapphire. 

The  Twins  endow  those  who  fall  under  their  sign  with  a 
genius  for  vacillation.  They  symbolically  indicate  a  dual 
temperament,  the  eternal  struggle  between  Psyche  and  Eros, 
which  nowadays  is  of  such  interest  to  Freudian  professors  that 
these  savants  are  said  to  pray  many  long  hours  each  night  that 
more  children  shall  be  born  between  May  20  and  June  21. 
In  the  children  of  the  Gemini  one  trait  of  character  contra 
dicts  another.  These  lads  wish  to  travel  and  they  wish  to  stay 
at  home.  They  are  nervous  and  phlegmatic,  happy  and  un 
happy,  serious  and  frivolous,  satisfied  and  dissatisfied,  af 
fectionate  and  cold,  generous  and  selfish.  They  are  fond  of 
colours  and  perfumes  and  rich  foods.  They  delight  in  the 
Arts  and  Sciences,  but  as  artists  they  will  accomplish  their 
best  work  through  inspiration  and  not  through  study  or  prepa- 


50  THE   SEVENTEENTH   OF   JUNE 

ration.     They  are,  I  am  happy  to  observe,  impatient  and  un 
truthful. 

"On  court,  helas!  apres  la  verite; 
Ah!  croyez  moi,  V  err  CUT  a  son  merite." 

It  is,  you  may  see,  a  day  on  which  charming  people  are 
born,  who  do  what  they  please  and  lie  about  it  afterwards  to 
save  their  credulous  dear  ones  needless  perturbation.  A  Fish, 
a  Water  Bearer,  a  Lion,  or  a  Virgin  is  allowed  no  such  zodia 
cal  privileges.  His  course  is  plain  before  him  and  he  must 
follow  it.  But  the  Gemini !  Each  one  of  them  is  two !  Noth 
ing  can  be  expected  of  him  (or  them),  and  everything!  He 
can  pleasantly  make  his  way  in  the  world,  singing  with  Walt 
Whitman : 

"  Do  I  contradict  myself? 
Very  well,  then,  I  contradict  myself." 

Roses  bloom  and  strawberry  shortcake  is  in  season.  The 
date  is  six  months  removed  from  Christmas  in  both  directions 
so  that  a  plentitude  of  presents  may  be  looked  for.  The 
weather  is  usually  delightful  anywhere  on  the  seventeenth  of 
June  and  the  day  may  be  suitably  celebrated  in  several  climes. 
A  wise  young  man  of  twenty-one,  however,  who  claims  this  su 
perior  birthday,  would,  I  think,  celebrate  it  in  London.  When 
I  say  London,  I  mean  the  River:  Windsor  or  Hampton  Court 
or  Richmond  will  do.  He  will  take  a  nice  girl  with  him,  a 
neat  flapper  in  a  frock  with  a  Liberty  pattern,  American  boots, 
a  French  hat,  and  a  Japanese  sunshade.  Later  he  may  marry 
her  if  he  likes,  but  it  is  better  that  he  defer  the  ceremony  until 
after  the  celebration. 

The  two  will  sit  on  the  balcony  of  some  old  inn  with  a  ro 
mantic  name  like  the  Star  and  Garter  and  observe  the  gay 
scene  on  the  Thames  over  the  obstruction  of  flower  boxes  brim 
ming  over  with  pansies,  fuschias,  mignonette,  heliotrope,  fev- 


CARL   VAN   VECHTEN  51 

erfew,  daisies,  petunias,  geraniums,  portulaca,  phlox,  verbenas, 
candytuft,  and  other  mid-Victorian  posies.  The  girl  will  be 
perfumed  with  Coty's  Vertige  and  the  young  man  of  twenty- 
one  will  be  garbed  in  white  serge.  His  tie  will  be  Chinese 
blue  and  through  its  folds  will  gleam  a  sapphire.  The  two 
will  smoke  Demetrino  cigarettes  and  the  two  will  drink  Scotch 
whisky  and  soda,  just  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  Presently 
hunger  will  become  an  emotion  and  I  should  suggest  an  En 
glish  mutton  chop,  with  the  kidney,  Pommes  frites,  and  large 
English  green  peas.  There  will  be  some  conversation  but  not 
too  much. 

After  luncheon  the  fellow  will  engage  a  boat  and,  placing 
the  young  lady  in  the  prow,  her  sunshade  held  at  the  right 
angle,  he  will  punt  her  up  or  down  the  river,  skilfully  ma 
noeuvring  his  craft  between  the  intricacies  of  rival  punts,  all 
of  which  bear  rival  young  ladies  with  equally  peerless  sun 
shades.  Then  the  young  man,  if  he  still  be  wise  and  twenty- 
one,  and  if  his  circumstances  and  his  acquaintanceships  and 
the  soviet  government  permit,  will  motor  the  young  lady  to  a 
country  house  where  they  will  drink  tea  on  the  sloping  lawn 
under  the  spreading  trees,  casting  lengthening  shadows.  So 
they  may  celebrate,  if  such  peaceful  celebrations  in  the  restful 
aristocratic  manner  are  possible  in  1939,  and  they  will  both 
be  very  happy  when  night,  the  warm  embracing  English  night, 
wraps  the  lawn  in  darkness.  And  about  the  night  I  shall  give 
them  no  advice. 

June  17,  1920 
New  York 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  FIVE  WILLOWS,  AN 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Translated  by  Arthur  Waley 

It  is  not  known  where  he  came  from  nor  what  was  his  real 
name.  But  because  five  willow-trees  grew  beside  his  house 
he  was  called  the  Master  of  the  Five  Willows.  He  was  a  quiet 
soul,  content  to  pass  through  life  without  comment  or  ambi 
tion. 

Though  he  loved  reading  he  never  probed  for  hidden  mean 
ings;  but  when  they  revealed  themselves  to  him  his  joy  was 
such  that  he  forgot  his  dinner. 

He  loved  wine,  but  could  seldom  afford  it.  His  friends 
knew  this  and  used  to  send  for  him  whenever  they  had  opened 
a  cask.  On  such  occasions  he  went  on  drinking  steadily  till  he 
felt  himself  getting  fuddled;  then  he  went  away.  For  he  never 
stayed  anywhere  longer  than  he  wished  to  nor  left  sooner  than 
he  chose. 

The  walls  of  his  ruined  house  protected  him  neither  from 
wind  or  rain;  his  short  jacket  was  tattered  and  tied  in  knots; 
his  bowl  was  often  empty  and  his  platter  bare. 

Yet  his  books  —  written  only  to  please  himself  and  give  the 
world  a  few  of  his  ideas  —  brought  him  happiness  enough. 

Thus  heedless  of  failure,  scornful  of  success,  the  Master 
lived  and  died. 

By  Tao  Ch'ien, 

Called  the  Master  of  the  Five  Willows. 


52 


PART  TWO 

A   BRIEF 
WHO'S   WHO 
OF   WRITERS 
PARTICULARLY  IDENTIFIED 

WITH 
THE  BORZOI 


A   BRIEF   WHO'S   WHO 


AIKEN,  Conrad:  Author  •"  Scep 
ticisms,";  b.  1889,  Savannah, 
Ga.  m.  Educ.:  Harvard  (1912). 
Travelled  extensively,  living  at 
different  times  in  London,  Rome 
and  Windermere. 

ALARCON,  Pedro  A.  de:  Author 
"The  Three-Cornered  Hat";  b. 
10  March,  1833,  at  Guadix, 
Prov.  of  Granada,  Spain,  m. 
Dona  Paulina  Contrera  de 
Reyes,  1866.  Educ.:  Guadix 
Seminary.  Had  a  varied  ca 
reer  as  writer,  soldier  and  poli 
tician.  Died  at  Madrid,  19 
July,  1891. 

ANTONELLI,  Etienne:  Author 
"Bolshevik  Russia";  6.  France, 
1879.  When  the  war  broke  out 
was  professor  of  political  econ 
omy  at  the  University  of  Poi 
tiers.  Wounded  and  decorated 
with  Croix  de  Guerre,  May, 
1915.  Sent  to  Russia  on  his 
recovery  as  military  attache  at 
French  Embassy. 

BAROJA,  Pfo:  Author  "Youth 
and  Egolatry " ;  b.  San  Se 
bastian,  28  Dec.  1872.  Educ.: 
San  Sebastian  schools;  Institute 
of  Pamplona;  studied  medicine 
at  Valencia;  graduated  as 
M.  D.  from  University  of  Ma 
drid,  1893.  Practised  medicine 
at  Cestona  for  two  years.  Went 
to  Madrid  where  he  ran  a  bak- 


55 


cry  for  six  years.  Since  then 
he  has  been  writing  and  pub 
lishing  regularly. 

BEERBOHM,  Max:  Author 
"Seven  Men";  b.  London,  24 
Aug.  1872.  m.  Florence  Kahn, 
of  Memphis,  Tennessee. 
Educ. :  Charterhouse ;  Merton 
Coll.  Oxford.  Member  of  Aca 
demic  Committee.  Since  1901 
there  have  been  six  exhibitions 
of  his  drawings.  Lives  in  Italy. 

BODENHEIM,  Maxwell:  Author 
"Advice";  b.  Natchez,  Miss., 
1892.  Educ.:  Memphis,  Tenn. 
Schools.  Served  three  years  in 
U.  S.  Regular  Army,  and  studied 
law  and  art  for  a  time  in  Chi 
cago.  Wrote  verse  for  six  years 
before  having  any  accepted  by 
the  magazines. 

BORDEN,  Mary:  Author  "The 
Romantic  Woman";  b.  Chicago, 
111.  m.  1st.,  Captain  Turner 
of  the  British  Army;  2nd.,  Gen 
eral  Edward  Lewis  Spiers  of  the 
British  Army,  March,  1918. 
During  the  war  she  equipped  at 
her  own  expense  the  first  mobile 
field  hospital  of  the  French 
Army,  for  which  she  was 
decorated  with  the  Legion  of 
Honor.  Resides  in  Paris. 

BRAGDON,  Claude  Fayette:  Au 
thor  "  Architecture  and  Democ 
racy";  b.  Oberlin,  0.,  Aug.  1, 


56 


A   BRIEF   WHO'S   WHO 


1866.  Educ.:  Oswego  High 
School ;  architectural  apprentice 
in  offices  of  Bruce  Price,  N.  Y., 
and  Green  and  Wicks,  Buffalo; 
77i.  Member  N.  Y.  Architects' 
League.  Lives  in  Rochester, 
N.  Y. 

BRIDGES,  Robert:  Author  "Oc 
tober  " ;  Poet-Laureate  since 
1913;  b.  23  Oct.  1844,  m.  3  Sept. 
1884,  Monica,  e.  d.  of  Al 
fred  Waterhouse,  R.  A.;  one  s. 
two  d.  Educ.:  Eton;  Corpus 
Christi  Coll.  Oxford  (Hon. 
Fell.)  After  leaving  Oxford 
travelled;  then  studied  medicine 
at  St.  Bartholomew's,  London; 
retired  1882. 

BYNNER,  Witter:  Author  "A 
Canticle  of  Pan";  b.  Brooklyn, 
N.  Y.,  1881.  Educ.:  Harvard 
(1902).  One  time  Assistant  ed 
itor  McClure's  Magazine  and 
Literary  Advisor  McClure,  Phil 
lips  and  Co. 

GATHER,  Willa  Sibert:  Author 
"Youth  and  the  Bright  Me 
dusa";  b.  Winchester,  Va.,  Dec. 
7,  1875.  Educ.:  Univ.  of  Ne 
braska,  graduating,  1895.  Staff 
of  Pittsburgh  Daily  Leader, 
1897-01;  asso.  editor  McClure's 
Magazine,  1906-12. 

CHENEY,  Sheldon :  Author  "  The 
Art  Theatre."  b.  Berkeley,  Cal 
ifornia,  29  June,  1886.  m. 
Maud  Meaurice  Turner,  of 
Berkeley,  1910.  Three  children. 
Educ:  University  of  California, 
A.  B.  1908.  In  business  1908-11, 
teaching  and  writing  1911-16, 
editorial  and  critical  work 
1916-20.  Editor  Theatre  Arts 
Magazine. 

DAVIES,     William     Henry:    Au 


thor  "  The  Autobiography  of  a 
Supertramp";  b.  20  April  1870, 
Newport,  Mon. ;  of  Welsh  par 
ents.  Educ.:  picked  up  knowl 
edge  among  tramps  in  Amer 
ica,  on  cattle  boats,  and  in 
the  common  lodging-houses  in 
England.  Apprenticed  to  the 
picture  frame  making;  left  Eng 
land  when  apprenticeship  closed 
and  tramped  in  America  for  six 
years;  came  back  to  England 
and  lived  in  common  lodging- 
houses  in  London,  making  sev 
eral  trips  as  pedlar  of  laces,  pins 
and  needles;  sometimes  varied 
this  life  by  singing  hymns  in  the 
street;  after  eight  years  of  this 
published  book  of  poems;  be 
came  a  poet  at  34. 

DAWSON  SCOTT,  C.  A.:  Au 
thor  "The  Rolling  Stone";  b. 
Dolwich  near  London.  Educ.: 
Anglo-German  College  in  Cam- 
berwell.  m.  Major  H.  F.  N. 
Scott.  Three  children.  Found 
ed  corps  to  prepare  women  to 
take  men's  places  during  war. 
Later  founded  Tomorrow  Club 
of  which  she  is  now  Lecture  Sec 
retary. 

DAY,  Clarence,  Jr. :  Author  "  This 
Simian  World":  b.  New  York 
City,  1874.  Educ.:  St.  Paul's 
School  (New  Hampshire)  and 
Yale.  Has  lived  at  various 
health  resorts  and  on  ranches  in 
the  West,  has  been  a  member  of 
the  New  York  Stock  Exchange 
and  has  served  as  an  Enlisted 
man  in  the  U.  S.  Naw.  Not 
married.  Lives  in  New  York. 

DE  LA  MARE,  Walter:  Author 
"The  Three  Mulla  Mulgars"; 
b.  1873,  lives  in  England. 


A   BRIEF   WHO'S   WHO 


57 


DELL,  Floyd:  Author  "Moon 
calf";  b.  Barry,  111.,  1887. 
Educ.:  Left  school  at  age  of 
16  to  work  in  factory;  four 
years  course  in  journalism  in  a 
middle  western  town.  Was  for 
some  years  Literary  Editor  of 
Chicago  Evening  Post,  later  Lit 
erary  Editor  of  The  Masses,  and 
now  conducts  the  monthly  liter 
ary  department  of  The  Lib 
erator  of  which  he  is  an  associ 
ate  editor. 

EASTON,  Dorothy:  Author  "The 
Golden  Bird";  b.  London,  1889. 
Educ.:  England,  France  and 
Germany.  Contributor  to  Man 
chester  Guardian,  The  Nation 
(London),  etc. 

ELIOT,  Thomas  Stearns:  Author 
"  Poems " ;  b.  St.  Louis,  Mo., 
1888.  Educ.:  Harvard  (A.  B. 
1909;  M.  A.  1910)  ;  studied  sub 
sequently  at  the  Sorbonne,  Harv 
ard  Graduate  School,  and  at 
Merton  College,  Oxford.  Mas 
ter  at  Highgate  School,  London, 
and  lecturer  under  both  the  Ox 
ford  and  London  University  Ex 
tension  Systems.  1917-19,  Assis 
tant  Editor  of  Egoist. 
EVARTS,  Hal  G.:  Author  "The 
Cross  Pull";  b.  Topeka,  Kansas, 
1887.  Left  school  to  put  in  win 
ter  trapping,  m.  One  son. 
Surveyed  in  Indian  Territory; 
summered  three  years  in  Colo 
rado  Rustic  Mountain  landscap 
ing;  intervening  winters  with 
bond  firms  and  trust  company; 
two  years  real  estate;  four  in  re 
tail  shoe  business  then  went  back 
to  Wyoming  hills;  three  years 
fur  farming. 
FLETCHER,  J.  S.:  Author  "The 


Middle  Temple  Murder";  b. 
Halifax,  1863.  m.  1884,  An 
nie,  d.  of  late  James  Harrison; 
two  s.  Educ.:  Silcoates  School 
and  privately.  Special  corres 
pondent  for  Leeds  Mercury  on 
several  occasions ;  assistant 
leader  writer  for  same  journal, 
1893-98 ;  special  correspondent 
for  Yorkshire  Post  at  Coronation 
ceremonies,  1902. 

FOLLETT,  Wilson:  Author  "The 
Modern  Novel " :  b.  North  At- 
tleborough,  Massachusetts,  21 
March,  1887;  Educ.:  A.  B. 
Harvard,  1909;  m.  Helen 
Thomas.  10  June,  1913.  Has 
taught  English  at  Agricultural 
and  Mechanical  College  of 
Texas,  Dartmouth  College, 
Brown  University,  and  Radcliffe 
College. 

FORSTER,  Edward  Morgan:  Au 
thor  "  Where  Angels  Fear  to 
Tread";  b.  1879.  Educ.: 
Tonbridge  (day  boy)  ;  King's 
Coll.,  Cambridge.  Clubs:  Sav- 
ile,  Oxford  and  Cambridge  Musi 
cal. 

FRANKAU,  Gilbert:  Author 
"Peter  Jameson";  b.  21  April 
1884;  Educ.:  Eton.  Entered 
his  father's  business,  1904;  com 
menced  writing  1910;  left  Eng 
land  and  travelled  around  the 
world.  1912-14;  first  commission 
9th  E.  Surrey  Regt.  Oct.  1914; 
transferred  to  R.  F.  A.  March 
1915;  appointed  Adjutant  to  his 
Brigade,  and  proceeded  over 
seas  in  that  capacity;  fought  at 
Loos,  Ypres,  the  Somme;  pro 
moted  Staff  Captain  for  special 
duty  in  Italy,  Oct.  1916;  in 
valided  from  the  Service  and 


58 


A  BRIEF  WHO'S  WHO 


granted  rank  of  Captain,  Feb. 
1918. 

GIBRAN,  Kahlil:  Author  "The 
Forerunner";  b.  1883  Mt.  Le 
banon,  Syria.  Educ.:  Beyrout 
College,  Al-Ki-Hikmat.  Studied 
art  in  Paris.  Exhibition  of 
paintings  at  Paris  Salon,  New 
York,  Boston.  Has  had  ten  vol 
umes  prose  and  poetry  in  Arabic 
published  in  last  ten  years;  sev 
eral  of  them  translated  into 
Spanish,  French,  German,  Eng 
lish.  Now  living  in  New  York. 

GRANT  WATSON,  E.  L.:  Au 
thor  "  Deliverance  " ;  b.  Steynes, 
N.  London,  1885.  m.  Katharane 
Hannay,  1919.  Educ.  Bedales 
School,  Trinity  College,  Cam 
bridge.  1st  Class  Nat.  Science 
tripos  1906.  Ethnological  Ex 
pedition  N.  W.  Australia  1910- 
12. 

HERBERT,  A.  P.:  Author  "The 
Secret  Battle";  Educ.:  Win 
chester  and  New  College,  Ox 
ford.  Enlisted  in  the  R.  N.  V. 
R.  as  Ordinary  Seaman,  Aug. 
1914.  Commissioned  March 
1915  and  went  with  Hawke 
Batt'n.,  Royal  Naval  Division  to 
Gallipoli.  Invalided  home,  Aug., 
same  year.  Served  in  France. 
Wounded  and  sent  home. 
Served,  1918  on  Naval  Staff  at 
Admiralty. 

HERGESHEIMER,  Joseph:  Au 
thor  "  San  Cristobal  de  la  Ha- 
bana";  b.  Philadelphia,  Pa., 
Feb.  15,  1880;  Educ.:  short 
period  at  a  Quaker  school,  Phil 
adelphia,  and  at  Pennsylvania 
Academy  of  Fine  Arts;  m.  Dor 
othy  Hemphill,  of  West  Chester, 
Pa.,  1907. 


HIGH  AM,  Charles  Frederick: 
Author  "Looking  Forward"; 
M.  P.  b.  1876;  Educ.:  St. 
Albans.  Assistant  Organizer 
with  Mr.  Kennedy  Jones,  M.  P., 
of  the  Victory  War  Loan  Cam 
paign  of  1917;  Freeman  of  the 
City  of  London;  Member  of  the 
Guild  of  Gold  &  Silver  Wyre 
Workers.  Clubs:  Carlton,  1900, 
National  Sporting,  Royal  Auto 
mobile,  Aldwych,  etc. 

HOOKER,  Forrestine  C.:  Author 
"The  Long  Dim  Trail";  b. 
Philadelphia.  Raised  in  10th 
U.  S.  Cavalry  during  frontier 
service  against  Indians;  m.  E.  R. 
Hooker.  Staff  of  Los  Angeles 
Examiner.  Secretary  of  Los 
Angeles  Humane  Society  for 
Children.  Investigator  on  Dis 
trict  Attorney's  Staff.  Secretary 
of  Los  Angeles  Auxiliary  of 
League  of  American  Pen  Women. 

HOWE,  Edgar  Watson:  Author 
"The  Anthology  of  Another 
Town";  b.  Treaty,  Ind.,  May  3, 
1854;  Educ.:  Common  schools 
in  Missouri.  Started  to  work  in 
printing  office  at  age  of  12;  m. 
Clara  L.  Frank  of  Falls  City, 
Neb.,  1875.  Published  the  Gol 
den  Globe  at  Golden,  Colo.,  at 
age  of  19;  editor  and  proprietor 
of  Atchison  Daily  Globe,  1877- 
1911:  editor  and  publisher  of 
E.  W.  Howe's  Monthly  since 
Jan..  1911. 

KROPOTKIN,  P:  Author  "  Ideals 
and  Realities  in  Russian  Lit 
erature  " ;  b.  9  Dec.  1842.  Educ. : 
Corps  of  Pages,  Petrograd  1857- 
62,  Petrograd  Univ.  1869-73. 
Gold  medal  Russ.  Geographic 
Soc.  for  journey  across  Man- 


A   BRIEF   WHO'S   WHO 


59 


churia  1864.  Explored  glacial 
deposits  Finland  and  Sweden 
1871.  Arrested  for  labour  agi 
tation  1874;  confined  in  St. 
Peter  and  St.  Paul  Fortress; 
escaped  1876.  Founded  Le  Re- 
volte  at  Geneva;  Expelled  from 
Switzerland  1881;  sentenced  at 
Lyons  to  5  yrs.  imprisonment, 
1883;  Liberated  1886.  Lived  in 
England  till  Russian  Revolution 
of  1917. 

McCLURE,  John:  Author  "Airs 
and  Ballads  " ;  b.  Ardmore,  Okla 
homa,  19  Dec.  1893.  Educ.: 
University  of  Oklahoma;  in 
Paris,  1913-14.  Member  of  the 
national  Hobo  College  fraternity, 
"  Quo  Vadis " ;  has  tramped 
about  two  thousand  miles  in  the 
South-west.  Runs  The  Olde 
Bookshop  in  New  Orleans. 

MACKAYE,  Percy:  Author  "  Rip 
Van  Winkle";  b.  New  York,  16 
March  1875.  Educ.  Harvard 
A.  B.,  Hon.  M.  A.  Dartmouth, 
Univ.  of  Leipzig;  m.  Marion  H. 
Morse  of  Cambridge  1898. 
Travelled  in  Europe  1898-1900, 
taught  private  school  New  York 
1900-1904,  lectured  Harvard, 
Yale,  Columbia  on  theatre  1904- 
1919. 

MAUGHAM.  William  Somerset: 
Author  "The  Land  of  the 
Blessed  Virgin";  b.  1874;  m. 
Syrie  Barnado;  one  d.  Educ.: 
King's  School,  Canterbury,  Hei 
delberg  University,  St.  Thomas's 
Hospital. 

MENCKEN,  Henry  Louis:  Au 
thor  "Prejudices";  b.  Balti 
more,  Md.,  Sept.  12,  1880. 
Educ.:  Bait.  Poly.  Inst.,  gradu 
ating  1896.  Unmarried.  Re 


porter,  1899,  city  editor,  1903-5, 
Baltimore  Morning  Herald ; 
editor  Evening  Herald,  1905;  on 
staff  Baltimore  Sun,  1906-17;  lit 
erary  critic  Smart  Set,  1908,  and 
editor  (with  George  Jean  Na 
than)  since  1914.  War  corre 
spondent  in  Germany  and  Russia 
in  1917. 

MILNE,  Alan  Alexander:  Author 
"First  Plays";  b.  18  Jan.  1882; 
assistant  editor  of  Punch  1906- 
14;  Royal  Warwickshire  Regt., 
Feb.  1915-19;  m.  Dorothy,  d.  of 
Martin  de  Selincourt.  Educ.: 
Westminster;  Trinity  College, 
Cambridge.  Edited  The  Granta, 
1902;  started  journalism  in  Lon 
don,  1903. 

NATHAN  George  Jean:  Author 
"  Comedians  All " ;  b.  Fort 
Wayne,  Ind.,  Feb.  15,  1882; 
Educ. :  Cornell  University, 

graduating  1904.  Unmarried. 
Editorial  staff  N.  Y.  Herald, 
1904-6;  dramatic  critic  and  asso. 
editor  Bohemian  Magazine  and 
Outing,  1906-8,  also  Burr  Mc- 
Intosh  Monthly,  1908;  dra 
matic  critic  for  Phila.  North 
American,  McClure's  Syndicate 
and  Cleveland  Leader  since 
1912;  dramatic  critic  Puck 
(with  James  Huneker)  1915-16; 
editor  Smart  Set  (with  H.  L. 
Mencken)  since  1914. 

NYBURG,  Sidney:  Author  "The 
Gate  of  Ivory"  etc.;  b.  Balti 
more,  Md.,  Dec.  8,  1880;  Educ.: 
Baltimore  City  College;  LL.  B. 
Univ.  of  Maryland,  graduating 
1901.  m.  Jan.  9,  1907.  Prac 
tised  law  in  Baltimore  since 
1902. 

OPPENHEIM,       James:    Author 


60 


A   BRIEF   WHO'S   WHO 


"The  Book  of  Self";  b.  St. 
Paul,  Minn.  24  May,  1882. 
Ediic.:  Two  years  of  special 
courses  at  Columbia  University. 
Assistant  editor  Cosmopolitan 
Magazine;  later  taught  in  an 
East  Side  Technical  school.  At 
age  of  24  he  began  free-lancing. 
Was  editor  of  The  Seven  Arts. 

PERTWEE,  Roland:  b.  Brigh 
ton,  15th  May  1885;  m.  Advice 
Scholtz  of  Capetown,  South 
Africa,  1910.  Educ.:  London 
and  Paris.  Started  as  a  por 
trait  painter;  abandoned  paint 
ing  in  favour  of  the  stage;  left 
stage  and  became  a  writer  in 
1914.  Served  in  Heavy  Artillery 
Mechanical  Transport  in  France 
during  war. 

RUSSELL,  John:  Author  "The 
Red  Mark  " ;  b.  Davenport,  Iowa, 
1885;  son  Charles  Edward  Rus 
sell.  Educ.:  Brooklyn  schools 
and  North- Western  University; 
much  foreign  travel.  Reporter 
N.  Y.  Herald  and  special  corres 
pondent  Panama  and  Peru. 
Now  lives  in  New  York. 

SHAFER,  Don  Cameron:  Author 
"Barent  Creighton";  6.  Char- 
lotteville,  N.  Y.,  Oct.  7,  1881; 
Educ.:  Public  Schools;  m. 
Janeth  E.  Mitchell  of  Roxbury, 
N.  Y.,  Jan.  10,  1910.  Learned 
printer's  trade;  reporter  Sche- 
nectady  Union,  1903;  later,  spe 
cial  writer  for  N.  Y.  World,  Sun, 
Press  and  Times;  also  contrib 
utor  to  magazines.  Advertising 
manager  for  General  Electric 
Co. 

SIT  WELL,  Osbert:  Author  "Ar 
gonaut  and  Juggernaut";  b. 
London,  6  Dec.  1892.  Educ.: 


Eton.  Served  in  France  as  Of 
ficer  in  the  Grenadier  Guards 
1914-15-16. 

SQUIRE,  John  Collings:  Author 
"Books  in  General";  b.  Ply 
mouth,  2  April  1884;  m.,  1908, 
Eileen  H.  A.,  d.  of  Rev.  A. 
Anstruther  Wilkinson;  three  s. 
Educ.:  Bundell's;  St.  John's 
College,  Cambridge  (Historical 
Scholar,  1903;  B.  A.  1908; 
M.  A.  1919)  ;  Literary  Editor 
New  Statesman  since  1913;  Act 
ing  Editor,  1917-19;  contested 
Cambridge  University  (Lab). 
1919.  Editor  the  London  Mer 
cury,  since  1919. 

TIETJENS,  Eunice  (nee  Ham 
mond)  :  Author  "Body  and 
Raiment";  b.  Chicago,  111.,  29 
July,  1884.  Educ.:  France, 
Switzerland  and  Germany.  Has 
travelled  extensively  in  all  parts 
of  the  world.  Two  years  on  the 
staff  of  Poetry  in  Chicago,  the 
second  as  Associate  Editor. 
For  one  year  war  correspondent 
in  Paris  for  Chicago  Daily  News ; 
m.  2nd  Cloyd  Head,  Chicago, 
1920. 

TOMLINSON,  H.  M.:  Author 
"Old  Junk";  b.  1873.  Joined 
the  editorial  staff  of  the  Morning 
Leader,  1904,  and  the  Daily 
News  when  the  two  papers  amal 
gamated;  War  Correspondent  in 
Belgium  and  France  from  Aug. 
1914,  and  an  Official  Correspond 
ent  at  General  Headquarters  of 
the  British  Armies  in  France, 
1915-17.  Assistant  Editor  The 
Nation  (London)  since  1917. 

TRIDON,  Andre:  Author  "Psy 
choanalysis  and  Behaviour  " ;  b. 
France  8  May,  1877.  Educ.: 


A   BRIEF   WHO'S   WHO 


61 


Paris,  Clermont,  Heidelberg  and 
New  York;  m.  1903.  Practising 
analyst  in  New  York.  First  psy 
choanalyst  in  U.  S.  to  deliver 
lectures  on  psychoanalysis  open 
to  the  general  public. 

TURNER,  George  Kibbe:  Au 
thor  "  Hagar's  Hoard  " ;  b. 
Quincy,  111.,  23  Mar.  1869. 
Educ.:  Williams  College,  gradu 
ating,  1890;  m.  Julia  Hawks 
Patchen  of  Bennington,  Vt.,  Oct. 
19,  1892.  Began  newspaper 
work  1891.  Editor  and  staff 
writer  on  McClure's  Magazine, 
1906-17. 

VAN  VECHTEN,  Carl:  Author 
"The  Tiger  in  the  House";  b. 
Cedar  Rapids,  Iowa  17  June, 
1880;  m.  Fania  Marinoff. 
Ass't  Musical  critic  New  York 
Times  1906-7,  Paris  correspond 
ent  same  1908-9,  Editor  program 
notes  Symphony  Society,  New 
York  1910-11,  Dramatic  critic 
New  York  Press  1913-14. 

VAN  WESEP,  Hendrikus  Boeve: 
Author  "  The  Control  of  Ideals  "; 
b.  30  October,  1888.  Amster 
dam,  Holland.  Moved  as  a  child 
to  one  of  the  Pioneer  Dutch  set 
tlements  in  the  Middle  West. 
Educ.:  Calvin  College  Prepar 
atory  School,  Grand  Rapids, 
Michigan;  University  of  Michi 
gan.  Chief  study  philosophy; 
grad.  1912.  Graduate  work  at 
Princeton  University;  Ph.D.  1917, 
in  ethics  and  Greek  Philosophy. 
Now  employed  by  the  Rockefel 
ler  Foundation  for  research 
work  in  philanthropic,  public 
health,  and  sociological  prob 
lems;  m.  Aleida  Sophia  van 
Vessem,  1917. 


WALEY,  Arthur  David:  Author 
"  More  Translations  from  the 
Chinese";  6.  Tunbridge  Wells, 
1889.  Educ.:  Rugby  and  Kings' 
College,  Cambridge.  Travelled 
in  France,  Germany  and-  Spain. 
Entered  Print  Room  of  the  Brit 
ish  Museum  in  1913.  In  the 
same  year  became  assistant  of 
Mr.  Laurence  Binyon,  head  of 
the  oriental  Section  of  the 
Print  Room.  Lives  in  Cart- 
wright  Gardens,  London.  Has 
never  been  outside  Europe,  but 
learnt  Chinese  and  Japanese 
from  native  teachers  in  Lon 
don. 

WALLAS,  Graham:  Author  "The 
Life  of  Francis  Place  " ;  b.  Sun- 
derland,  31  May  1858;  m.  1897, 
Ada  Radford;  one  d.  Educ.: 
Shrewsbury  School,  1871-77 ; 
Corpus  Christi  College,  Oxford, 
1877-81;  Lecturer  at  London 
School  of  Economics  since  1895; 
University  Professor  in  Political 
Science,  1914;  Lowell  Lecturer, 
1914. 

WILKINSON,  Louis  Umfreville: 
Author  "Brute  Gods";  b.  Aide- 
burgh,  Suffolk,  England,  17  Dec. 
1881;  son  of  late  Rev.  W.  G. 
Wilkinson,  formerly  Fellow  of 
Worcester  College,  Oxford. 
Educ.:  Radley;  St.  John's  Col 
lege,  Cambridge;  M.A.  Cantab; 
Litt.D.,  St.  John's  College,  An 
napolis;  m.  1912,  Frances  Josefa 
Gregg;  one  s.  one  d. 

WILLIAMS,  James  Mickel:  Au 
thor  "  The  Foundations  of  Social 
Science";  b.  Waterville,  N.  Y., 
1876.  Educ.:  A. B.  Brown  Uni 
versity  1898;  B.D.  Union  Theolo. 


62 


Sem.,  1901:  Ph.D.  Columbia, 
1906;  m.  Lucinda  Chamberlain 
Noyes  of  Rochester,  N.  Y.,  1913. 


BRIEF   WHO'S   WHO 

Lecturer  on  Economics  Vassar 
1907-8;  prof.  econ.  and  soc. 
Hobart  College  1908-1920. 


PART  THREE 

SELECTED   PASSAGES 

FROM 
BORZOI  BOOKS 


HOW  HE   DIED1 

By  Conrad  Aiken 

When  Punch  had  roared  at  the  inn  for  days 
The  walls  went  round  in  a  ringing  haze, 
Miriam,  through  the  splendour  seen, 
Twinkled  and  smiled  like  Sheba's  Queen, 
Jake  was  the  devil  himself,  the  host 
Scratched  in  a  book  like  a  solemn  Faust; 
And  the  lights  like  birds  went  swiftly  round 
With  a  soft  and  feathery  whistling  sound. 
He  seized  the  table  with  one  great  hand 
And  a  thousand  people  helped  him  stand, 
"  Good-night !  "  a  thousand  voices  said, 
The  words  like  gongs  assailed  his  head, 
And  out  he  reeled,  most  royally, 
Singing,  amid  that  company. — 
Luminous  clocks  above  him  rolled, 
Bells  in  the  darkness  heavily  tolled, 
The  stars  in  the  sky  were  smoothly  beating 
In  a  solemn  chorus,  all  repeating 
The  tick  of  the  great  heart  in  his  breast 
That  tore  his  body,  and  would  not  rest. 

Singing,  he  climbed  the  elusive  street, 
And  heard  far  off  his  footsteps  beat; 
Singing,  they  pushed  him  through  the  door, 
And  he  fell  full  length  on  the  darkened  floor  .  .  . 

iFrom  "Punch:  The  Immortal  Liar."    To  be  published  May,  1921. 

65 


66  HOWHEDIED 

But  his  head  struck  sharply  as  he  fell 
And  he  heard  a  sound  like  a  broken  bell; 
And  then,  in  the  half-light  of  the  moon, 
The  twittering  elvish  light  of  June, 
A  host  of  folk  came  round  him  there, — 
Sheba,  with  diamonds  in  her  hair, 
Solomon,  thumming  a  psaltery, 
Judas  Iscariot,  dark  of  eye, 
Satan  and  Faustus  and  Lorraine, 
And  Celiogabalus  with  his  train  .  .  . 
The  air  was  sweet  with  a  delicate  sound 
Of  silk  things  rustling  on  the  ground, 
Jewels  and  silver  twinkled,  dim, 
Voices  and  laughter  circled  him  .  .  . 
After  a  while  the  clock  struck  two, 
A  whisper  among  the  audience  flew, 
And  Judy  before  him  came  and  knelt 
And  kissed  him;  and  her  lips,  he  felt, 
Were  wet  with  tears  .  .  .  She  wore  a  crown, 
And  amethysts,  and  a  pale  green  gown  .  .  . 
After  a  while  the  clock  struck  three 
And  Polly  beside  him,  on  one  knee, 
Leaned  above  him  and  softly  cried, 
Wearing  a  white  veil  like  a  bride. 
One  candle  on  the  sill  was  burning, 
And  Faustus  sat  in  the  corner,  turning 
Page  after  page  with  solemn  care 
To  count  the  immortal  heartbeats  there. 
Slow  was  the  heart,  and  quick  the  stroke 
Of  the  pen,  and  never  a  word  he  spoke; 
But  watched  the  tears  of  pale  wax  run 
Down  from  the  long  flame  one  by  one. 
Solomon  in  the  moonlight  bowed, 
The  Queen  of  Sheba  sobbed  aloud; 


CONRAD   AIKEN  67 

Like  a  madonna  carved  in  stone 

Judy  in  starlight  stood  alone: 

Tears  were  glistening  on  her  cheek, 

Her  lips  were  awry,  she  could  not  speak. 

After  a  while  the  clock  struck  four, 

And  Faustus  said  "  I  can  write  no  more: 

I've  entered  the  heartbeats,  every  one, 

And  now  the  allotted  time  is  done." 

He  dipped  his  pen,  made  one  more  mark, 

And  clapped  his  book.     The  room  grew  dark. 

At  four  o'clock  Punch  turned  his  head 

And  "  I  forgive  you  all,"  he  said.  .  .  . 

At  five  o'clock  they  found  him  dead. 


FROM   "YOUTH   AND   EGOLATRY"1 
By  Pio  Baroja 

Goethe 

If  a  militia  of  genius  should  be  formed  on  Parnassus,  Goethe 
would  be  the  drum-major.  He  is  so  great,  so  majestic,  so 
serene,  so  full  of  talent,  so  abounding  in  virtue,  and  yet,  so 
antipathetic! 

Chateaubriand 

A  skin  of  Lacrymae  Christi  that  has  turned  sour.  At  times 
the  good  Viscount  drops  molasses  into  the  skin  to  take  away 
the  taste  of  vinegar;  at  other  times,  he  drops  in  more  vinegar 
to  take  away  the  sweet  taste  of  the  molasses.  He  is  both 
moth-eaten  and  sublime. 

Victor  Hugo 

Victor  Hugo,  the  most  talented  of  rhetoricians!  Victor 
Hugo,  the  most  exquisite  of  vulgarians!  Victor  Hugo  — 
mere  common  sense  dressed  up  as  art. 

Balzac 

A  nightmare,  a  dream  produced  by  indigestion,  a  chill,  rare 
acuteness,  equal  obtuseness,  a  delirium  of  splendours,  cheap 
hardware,  of  pretence  and  bad  taste.  Because  of  his  ugliness, 
because  of  his  genius,  because  of  his  immorality,  the  Danton 
of  printers'  ink. 
1  See  Bibliography. 


PIO   BAROJA  69 

Poe 

A  mysterious  sphinx  who  makes  one  tremble  with  lynx-like 
eyes,  the  goldsmith  of  magical  wonders. 

Dickens 

At  once  a  mystic  and  a  sad  clown.  The  Saint  Vincent  de 
Paul  of  the  loosened  string,  the  Saint  Francis  of  Assisi  of 
the  London  Streets.  Everything  is  gesticulation,  and  the  ges 
ticulations  are  ambiguous.  When  we  think  he  is  going  to 
weep,  he  laughs;  when  we  think  he  is  going  to  laugh,  he  cries. 
A  remarkable  genius  who  does  everything  he  can  to  make 
himself  appear  puny,  yet  who  is,  beyond  doubt,  very  great. 

Sainte  Beuve 

Sainte  Beuve  writes  as  if  he  had  always  said  the  last  word, 
as  if  he  were  precisely  at  the  needle  of  the  scales.  Yet  I  feel 
that  this  writer  is  not  as  infallible  as  he  thinks.  His  interest 
lies  in  his  anecdote,  in  his  malevolent  insinuation,  in  his 
bawdry.  Beyond  these,  he  has  the  same  Mediterranean  fea 
tures  as  the  rest  of  us. 

Ruskin 

He  impresses  me  as  the  Prince  of  Upstarts,  grandiloquent 
and  at  the  same  time  unctuous,  a  General  in  a  Salvation  Army 
of  Art,  or  a  monk  who  is  a  devotee  of  an  esthetic  Doctrine 
which  has  been  drawn  up  by  a  Congress  of  Tourists. 

A    Word  from  Kuroki,  the  Japanese 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  General  Kuroki,  speaking  at  a  banquet 
tendered  to  him  in  New  York,  "  I  cannot  aspire  to  the  ap 
plause  of  the  world,  because  I  have  created  nothing,  I  have 
invented  nothing.  I  am  only  a  soldier." 

If  these  are  not  his  identical  words,  they  convey  the  mean 
ing  of  them. 


70  "YOUTH  AND   EGOLATRY" 

This  victorious,  square-headed  Mongolian  had  gotten  into 
his  head  what  the  dolichocephalic  German  blond,  who,  ac 
cording  to  German  anthropologists  is  the  highest  product  of 
Europe,  and  the  brachycephalic  brunette  of  Gaul  and  the  Latin 
and  the  Slav  have  never  been  able  to  understand. 

Will  they  ever  be  able  to  understand  it?  Perhaps  they 
never  will  be  able. 

Love  of  the  Workingman 

To  gush  over  the  workingman  is  one  of  the  commonplaces 
of  the  day  which  is  utterly  false  and  hypocritical.  Just  as  in 
the  18th  century  sympathy  was  with  the  simple  hearted  citizen, 
so  today  we  talk  about  workingman.  The  term  work 
ingman  can  never  be  anything  but  a  grammatical  common 
denominator.  Among  workingmen,  as  among  the  bourgeoisie, 
there  are  all  sorts  of  people.  It  is  perfectly  true  that  there 
are  certain  characteristics,  certain  defects,  which  may  be  exag 
gerated  in  a  given  class,  because  of  its  special  environment  and 
culture.  The  difference  in  Spanish  cities  between  the  labour 
ing  men  and  the  bourgeoisie  is  not  very  great.  We  frequently 
see  the  workingman  leap  the  barrier  into  the  bourgeoisie,  and 
then  disclose  himself  as  a  unique  flower  of  knavery,  extortion 
and  misdirected  ingenuity.  Deep  down  in  the  hearts  of  our 
revolutionists,  I  do  not  believe  that  there  is  any  real  enthusiasm 
for  the  workingman. 

When  the  bookshop  of  Fernando  Fe  was  still  in  the  Carrera 
de  San  Jeronimo,  I  once  heard  Blasco  Ibanez  say  with  the 
cheapness  that  is  his  distinguishing  trait,  laughing  meanwhile 
ostentatiously,  that  a  republic  in  Spain  would  mean  the  rule 
of  shoemakers  and  of  the  scum  of  the  streets. 


FROM   "THE   ROMANTIC   WOMAN"1 
By  Mary  Borden 

Now  that  I've  got  back  to  the  beginning,  the  night  of  the 
10th  of  September,  1913,  I  find  that  I've  told  you  all  sorts  of 
things,  almost  everything  of  importance,  except  just  what  hap 
pened  that  ni^ht.  I'm  afraid,  in  telling  the  story,  I've  got 
into  rather  a  muddle.  It's  so  difficult  to  keep  distinct  what  I 
felt  and  knew  at  various  times,  and  what  I  feel  and  know  now. 
Now  the  war  is  on  u?,  and  my  chief  feeling  is  one  of  fear,  not 
any  definite  fear  of  Zeppelins  or  invasions,  but  a  vague,  dread 
ful  fear,  an  acute  sense  of  insecurity.  The  world  is  shaking, 
and  its  convulsions  give  one  a  feeling  of  having,  to  put  it 
vulgarly,  gone  dotty.  It's  as  though  I  saw  all  the  tables  and 
chairs  in  my  room  moving  about  and  falling  over.  Everything 
that  was  stable  and  was  made  to  hang  on  to,  and  sit  down  upon, 
and  lean  against,  is  lurching.  The  great  business  of  life  seems 
to  be  to  sit  tight,  but  one  has  a  suspicion  that  even  the  law 
of  gravity  may  be  loosed  and  that  we  shall  find  ourselves  fall 
ing  off  the  earth.  Before  the  4th  of  August,  people  in  their 
secure  little  houses  were  enjoying  their  miseries  and  making 
capital  out  of  their  difficulties,  and  splendidly  gambling  on 
the  future  —  the  dark  future  that  seemed  so  possible.  Now 
it  is  all  changed.  It  appears  that  the  conduct  of  life  is  largely 
a  matter  of  unconscious  calculations.  One  says  good-bye  and 
calculates  that  the  chances  are  a  hundred  to  one,  that  one 
will  meet  this  friend  again.  But  when  I  said  good-bye  to 
Binky  the  other  day  at  the  one  o'clock  from  Victoria,  the 
chances  were  a  hundred  to  one  against  his  coming  back.  It's 

iSee  Bibliography. 

71 


72  "THE  ROMANTIC  WOMAN" 

a  curious  thing  to  have  all  the  mathematics  of  life  upset.  It 
makes  one  feel  like  being  in  a  mad-house.  The  laughter  of 
Arch  and  Humpy  rising  in  shrieks  from  the  gardens  seems 
incredible  and  wonderful.  The  security  of  childhood  becomes 
the  most  precious  thing  on  earth. 

So  you  see  how  difficult  it  is  to  remember  what  my  feelings 
were  in  1913.  I  have  told  you  about  how  the  American  quar 
tette  descended  on  us  at  Saracens,  and  I've  told  you  about 
my  clairvoyant  moment  at  dinner,  when  I  saw  through  them 
all  as  though  an  X-ray  machine  had  been  turned  on  them.  I 
don't  want  to  go  into  all  the  complex  impressions  of  their 
personalities  and  the  queer,  surcharged  atmosphere  that  their 
minds  altogether  there,  created  in  the  house,  because  Louise's 
wretched  mind  dominated  them  all  for  me  as  the  evening  went 
on,  just  as  her  voice  drowned  their  voices  and  her  tragedy 
eclipsed  their  little  troubles.  Phyllis  and  Binky  may  have 
been  under  a  strain;  no  doubt  they  were.  Pat  may  have  been 
uncomfortable,  though  I  don't  believe  he  was.  Claire,  un 
doubtedly,  drew  a  certain  sinister  satisfaction  form  Phil's  help 
lessness.  But  all  those  things  scarcely  count  at  all  compared 
to  the  dreadful  tension  stretched  over  Louise  and  Jim.  I  had 
a  feeling  of  something  drawn  round  them,  very  tight,  enclosing 
them  in  a  space  like  the  inside  of  a  balloon,  where  the  gases 
of  their  misery  and  distrust  swelled  to  bursting.  And  the 
final  act  was  just  the  bursting  of  a  bubble  that  had  been 
strained  too  long.  And  it  seems,  now,  scarcely  more  import 
ant  in  the  sum  total  of  the  world's  tragedy  than  the  bursting 
of  a  toy  balloon,  buyable  for  a  penny,  and  in  competition  with 
the  roar  of  armaments,  scarcely  more  noisy. 

And  yet,  if  we  are  immortals,  all  of  us,  then  it  was,  of 
course,  much  more  than  that,  and  the  amount  of  pain  that 
was  mine  afterward,  and  the  cowardly  giving  in  to  the  hope 
less  boredom  of  life  that  resulted  from  it,  all  that  will  be 
balanced  up  against  me,  I  suppose.  I  suppose  my  giving  in 


MARY   BORDEN  73 

to  Ruffles,  when  I  knew  there  was  nothing  in  it,  will  be  laid 
up  against  me.  I  don't  know.  I  don't  care  very  much.  It's 
so  difficult  to  decide  whether  that  sort  of  thing  really  matters. 
To  my  father  it  would  matter  so  terribly,  and  to  Binky  it 
would  —  it  did  —  matter  so  little.  I  could  never  tell  from  his 
manner  whether  he  accepted  it  in  knowledge  or  was  altogether 
unaware.  But  it's  curious  that  Louise  should  have  accused 
me  of  the  thing  that  hadn't  happened  and  was  not  going  to, 
because  my  father  came  to  see  us. 


OCTOBER1 

By  Robert  Bridges 

April  adance  in  play 

met  with  his  lover  May 

where  she  came  garlanded. 
The  blossoming  boughs  o'erhead 

were  thrilPd  to  bursting  by 

the  dazzle  from  the  sky 

and  the  wild  music  there 

that  shook  the  odorous  air. 

Each  moment  some  new  birth 

hasten'd  to  deck  the  earth 

in  the  gay  sunbeams. 
Between  their  kisses  dreams: 

And  dream  and  kiss  were  rife 

with  laughter  of  mortal  life. 

But  this  late  day  of  golden  fall 
is  still  as  a  picture  upon  a  wall 
or  a  poem  in  a  book  lying  open  unread. 
Or  whatever  else  is  shrined 

when  the  Virgin  hath  vanished; 
Footsteps  of  eternal  Mind 
on  the  path  of  the  dead. 
iFrom  "October."    See  Bibliography. 


74 


"LETTERS   OF   A   JAVANESE    PRINCESS"1 
By  Louis  Couperus 

When  the  letters  of  Raden  Adjeng  Kartini  were  published 
in  Holland,  they  aroused  much  interest  and  awakened  a  warm 
sympathy  for  the  writer.  She  was  the  young  daughter  of  a 
Javanese  Regent,  one  of  the  "  princesses  "  who  grow  up  and 
blossom  in  sombre  obscurity  and  seclusion,  leading  their 
monotonous  and  often  melancholy  lives  within  the  confines  of 
the  Kaboepatin,  as  the  high  walled  Regent's  palaces  are  called. 

The  thought  of  India,  or  as  we  now  say,  perhaps  more 
happily,  Java,  had  a  strange  fascination  for  me  even  as  a 
child.  I  was  charmed  by  the  weird  mystery  of  its  stories  which 
frightened  even  while  they  charmed  me.  Although  I  was  born 
in  Holland,  our  family  traditions  had  been  rooted  in  Java. 
My  father  began  his  official  career  there  as  a  Judge,  and  my 
mother  was  the  daughter  of  a  Governor  General,  while  my 
older  brothers  had  followed  their  father's  example  and  were 
officials  under  the  Colonial  Government. 

At  nine  years  of  age  I  was  taken  to  the  inscrutable  and  far 
off  land  round  which  my  early  fancy  had  played;  and  I 
passed  five  of  my  school  years  in  Batavia.  At  the  end  of  those 
five  years  I  felt  the  same  charm  and  the  same  mystery.  The 
thought  of  Java  became  almost  an  obsession.  I  felt  that  while 
we  Netherlanders  might  rule  and  exploit  the  country,  we 
should  never  be  able  to  penetrate  its  mystery.  It  seemed  to 
me  that  it  would  always  be  covered  by  a  thick  veil,  which 

1  See  page  138. 

75 


76  A   JAVANESE   PRINCESS 

guarded  its  Eastern  soul  from  the  strange  eyes  of  the  Western 
conqueror.  There  was  a  quiet  strength  "  Een  Stille  Kracht  "  * 
unperceived  by  our  cold  business-like  gaze.  It  was  something 
intangible,  and  almost  hostile,  with  a  silent,  secret  hostility 
that  lurked  in  the  atmosphere,  in  nature  and  above  all,  in  the 
soul  of  the  natives.  It  menaced  from  the  slumbering  vol 
canoes,  and  lay  hidden  in  mysterious  shadows  of  the  rustling 
bamboos.  It  was  in  the  bright,  silver  moonlight  when  the 
drooping  palm  trees  trembled  in  the  wind  until  they  seemed 
to  play  a  symphony  so  gentle  and  so  complaining  that  it  moved 
me  to  my  soul.  I  do  not  know  whether  this  was  poetic  imag 
ination  ever  prone  to  be  supersensitive,  or  in  reality  the  "  Quiet 
Strength,"  hidden  in  the  heart  of  the  East  and  eternally  at  war 
with  the  spirit  of  the  West.  It  is  certainly  true  that  the 
Javanese  has  never  been  an  open  book  to  the  Netherlander. 
The  difference  of  race  forms  an  abyss  so  deep  that  though  they 
may  stand  face  to  face  and  look  into  each  other's  eyes,  it  is  as 
though  they  saw  nothing. 

The  Javanese  woman  of  noble  birth  is  even  more  impene 
trable.  The  life  of  a  Raden  Adjeng  or  a  Raden  Ad  joe  is  a 
thing  apart.  Even  the  Dutch  officials  and  rulers  of  the  country 
know  nothing  of  the  lives  of  these  secluded  "  princesses,"  as 
we  like  to  call  the  wives  and  daughters  of  the  Regents,  though 
they  themselves  lay  no  claim  to  a  title  which  in  Europe  ranks 
so  high. 

Suddenly  a  voice  was  heard  from  the  depths  of  this  un 
known  land.  It  rose  from  behind  the  high  protecting  wall 
that  had  done  its  work  of  subjection  and  concealment  through 
the  ages.  It  was  gentle,  like  the  melodious  song  of  a  little 
bird  in  a  cage  —  in  a  costly  cage  it  is  true,  and  surrounded  by 
the  tenderest  care,  but  still  in  a  cage  that  was  also  a  prison. 
It  was  the  voice  of  Raden  Adjeng  Kartini,  which  sounded 
above  the  walls  of  the  close-barred  Kaboepatin.  It  was  like 

1  See  Couperus'  novel  "  Een  Stille  Kracht." 


LOUIS  COUPERUS  77 

the  cry  of  a  little  bird  that  wanted  to  spread  its  wings  free  in 
the  air,  and  fly  towards  life.  And  the  sound  grew  fuller  and 
clearer,  till  it  became  the  rich  voice  of  a  woman. 

She  was  shut  in  by  aristocratic  traditions  and  living  virtually 
imprisoned  as  became  a  young  "princess"  of  Java;  but  she 
sang  of  her  longing  for  life  and  work  and  her  voice  rose  clearer 
and  stronger.  It  penetrated  to  the  distant  Netherlands,  and 
was  heard  there  with  wonder  and  with  delight.  She  was  sing 
ing  a  new  song,  the  first  complaint  that  had  ever  gone  forth 
from  the  mysterious  hidden  life  of  the  Javanese  woman.  With 
all  the  energy  of  her  body  and  soul  she  wanted  to  be  free,  to 
work  and  to  live  and  to  love. 

Then  the  complaint  became  a  song  of  rejoicing.  For  she 
not  only  longed  to  lead  the  new  life  of  the  modern  woman, 
but  she  had  the  strength  to  accomplish  it,  and  more  than  that, 
to  win  the  sympathy  of  her  family  and  of  her  friends  for  her 
ideals.  This  little  "  princess  "  lifted  the  concealing  veil  from 
her  daily  life  and  not  only  her  life,  her  thoughts  were  re 
vealed.  An  Oriental  woman  had  dared  to  fight  for  feminism, 
even  against  her  tenderly  loved  parents.  For  although  her 
father  and  mother  were  enlightened  for  noble  Javanese,  they 
had  at  first  strongly  opposed  her  ideas  as  unheard  of  innova 
tions. 

She  wanted  to  study  and  later  to  become  a  teacher  to  open 
a  school  for  the  daughters  of  Regents,  and  to  bring  the  new 
spirit  into  their  lives.  She  battled  bravely,  she  would  not  give 
up;  in  the  end  she  won. 

Raden  Adjeng  Kartini  freed  herself  from  the  narrow  op 
pression  of  tradition,  and  the  simple  language  of  these  letters 
chants  a  paean  "  From  Darkness  into  Light."  *  The  mist  of 
obscurity  is  cleared  away  from  her  land  and  her  people.  The 
Javanese  soul  is  shown  simple,  gentle,  and  less  hostile  than  we 

1 "  Door  Duisternis  tot  Licht " —  title  under  which  Kartini's  Letters 
were  first  published  in  Holland. 


78  A   JAVANESE   PRINCESS 

Westerners  had  ever  dared  to  hope.  For  the  soul  of  this  girl 
was  one  with  the  soul  of  her  people,  and  it  is  through  her  that 
a  new  confidence  has  grown  up  between  West  and  the  East, 
between  the  Netherlands  and  Java.  The  mysterious  "  Quiet 
Strength  "  is  brought  into  the  light,  it  is  tender,  human  and 
full  of  love  and  Holland  may  well  be  grateful  to  the  hand  that 
revealed  it. 

This  noble  and  pure  soul  was  not  destined  to  remain  long 
upon  earth.  Had  she  lived,  who  knows  what  Raden  Adjeng 
Kartini  might  not  have  accomplished  for  the  well  being  of  her 
country  and  her  people;  above  all,  for  the  Javanese  women  and 
the  Javanese  child.  She  was  the  first  Regent's  daughter  to 
break  the  fixed  tradition  in  regard  to  marriage;  it  was  cus 
tomary  to  give  the  bride  to  a  strange  bridegroom,  whom  she 
had  never  seen,  perhaps  never  even  heard  of,  until  her  wed 
ding  day.  Kartini  chose  her  own  husband,  a  man  whom  she 
loved,  but  her  happy  life  with  him  was  cut  short  by  her  early 
death. 

It  is  sometimes  granted  to  those  whom  the  gods  love  to 
bring  their  work  to  fruition  in  all  the  splendour  of  youth,  in 
the  springtime  or  the  summer  of  their  lives.  To  have  worked 
and  to  have  completed  a  great  task,  when  one  is  young,  so 
that  the  world  is  left  richer  for  all  time  —  is  not  that  the  most 
beautiful  of  all  the  gifts  of  the  gods? 


APRIL'S   CHARMS1 
By  William  H.  Davies 

When  April  scatters  coins  of  primrose  gold 
Among  the  copper  leaves  in  thickets  old, 
And  singing  skylarks  from  the  meadows  rise, 
To  twinkle  like  black  stars  in  sunny  skies; 

When  I  can  hear  the  small  woodpecker  ring 
Time  on  a  tree  for  all  the  birds  that  sing; 
And  hear  the  pleasant  cuckoo,  loud  and  long  — 
The  simple  bird  that  thinks  two  notes  a  song; 

When  I  can  hear  the  woodland  brook,  that  could 
Not  drown  a  babe,  with  all  his  threatening  mood: 
Upon  whose  banks  the  violets  make  their  home, 
And  let  a  few  small  strawberry  blossoms  come; 

When  I  go  forth  on  such  a  pleasant  day, 
One  breath  outdoors  takes  all  my  care  away; 
It  goes  like  heavy  smoke,  when  flames  take  hold 
Of  wood  that's  green  and  fill  a  grate  with  gold. 
1  From  "  Collected  Poems  of  W.  H.  Davies."    See  Bibliography. 


79 


CHAPTER  V 

BY  this  time,  it  was  plain,  Thimble  and  Thumb  had 
found  something  to  raise  them  to  the  window-hole,  for 
Nod,  as  he  glanced  up,  saw  half  of  both  their  astonished 
faces  (one  eye  of  each)  peering  in  at  the  window.  He 
waved  his  lean  little  arms,  and  their  faces  vanished. 

"Why  do  you  wave  your  long  thumbs  in  the  air?"  said 
the  old  Gunga  uneasily. 

"I  wave  to  Tishnar,"  said  Nod,  "who  watches  over  her 
wandering  Princes,  and  will  preserve  them  from  thieves 
and  cunning  ones.  And  as  for  your  filthy  green-weed 
soup,  how  should  a  Mulla-mulgar  soil  his  thumbs  with 
gutting  fish?  And  as  for  the  Water-midden's  song,  that 
I  cannot  teach  you,  nor  would  I  teach  it  you  if  I  could, 
Master  Fish-catcher.  But  I  can  catch  fish  with  it." 

The  old  Gunga  squatted  close  on  his  stool,  and  grinned 
as  graciously  as  he  could.  "I  am  poor  and  growing  old," 
he  said,  "and  I  cannot  catch  fish  as  once  I  could.  How  is 
that  done,  O  Royal  Traveller?" 

—62— 

A   PAGE   FROM   THE   THREE   MULLA-MULGARS, 
BY  WALTER  DE   LA   MARE, 
ILLUSTRATED   BY   DOROTHY   P.    LATHROP. 
See  Bibliography  and  page  136. 

80 


BURBANK   WITH   A   BAEDEKER; 
BLEISTEIN   WITH  A   CIGAR1 

By  T.  S.  Eliot 

Tra-la-la-la-la-la-laire  —  nil  nisi  divinum  stabile  est;  caetera 
fumus  —  the  gondola  stopped,  the  old  place  was  there,  how 
charming  its  grey  and  pink  —  goats  and  monkeys,  with  such 
hair  too!  —  50  the  countess  passed  on  until  she  came  through 
the  little  park,  where  Niobe  presented  her  with  a  cabinet,  and 
so  departed. 

Burbank  crossed  a  little  bridge 

Descending  at  a  small  hotel; 
Princess  Volupine  arrived, 

They  were  together,  and  he  fell. 

Defunctive  music  under  sea 

Passed  seaward  with  the  passing  bell 

Slowly:  the  God  Hercules 

Had  left  him,  that  had  loved  him  well. 

The  horses,  under  the  axletree 

Beat  up  the  dawn  from  Istria 
With  even  feet.     Her  shuttered  barge 

Burned  on  the  water  all  the  day. 

But  this  or  such  was  Bleistein's  way: 
A  saggy  bending  of  the  knees 

iFrom  "Poems  of  T.  S.  Eliot."    See  Bibliography. 

81 


82  BURBANK  WITH  A   BAEDEKER 

And  elbows,  with  the  palms  turned  out, 
Chicago  Semite  Viennese. 

A  lustreless  protrusive  eye 

Stares  from  the  protozoic  slime 
At  a  perspective  of  Canalotto. 

The  smoky  candle  end  of  time 

Declines.     On  the  Rialto  once. 

The  rats  are  underneath  the  piles. 
The  jew  is  underneath  the  lot. 

Money  in  furs.     The  boatman  smiles, 

Princess  Volupine  extends 

A  meagre,  blue-nailed,  phthisic  hand 

To  climb  the  waterstair.     Lights,  lights, 
She  entertains  Sir  Ferdinand 

Klein.     Who  clipped  the  lion's  wings 

And  flea'd  his  rump  and  pared  his  claws; 

Thought  Burbank,  meditating  on 
Time's  ruins,  and  the  seven  laws. 


FROM 
"WHERE   ANGELS   FEAR   TO   TREAD"1 

By  E.  M.  Forster 

Harriet,  meanwhile,  had  been  coughing  ominously  at  the 
drop-scene,  which  presently  rose  on  the  grounds  of  Ravens- 
wood,  and  the  chorus  of  Scotch  retainers  burst  into  cry.  The 
audience  accompanied  with  tappings  and  drummings,  sway 
ing  in  the  melody  like  corn  in  the  wind.  Harriet,  though  she 
did  not  care  for  music,  knew  how  to  listen  to  it.  She  uttered 
an  acid  "Shish!" 

"  Shut  it,"  whispered  her  brother. 

"  We  must  make  a  stand  from  the  beginning.  They're  talk- 
ing." 

"  It  is  tiresome,"  murmured  Miss  Abbott ;  "  but  perhaps  it 
isn't  for  us  to  interfere." 

Harriet  shook  her  head  and  shished  again.  The  people 
were  quiet,  not  because  it  is  wrong  to  talk  during  a  chorus, 
but  because  it  is  natural  to  be  civil  to  a  visitor.  For  a  little 
time  she  kept  the  whole  house  in  order,  and  could  smile  at  her 
brother  complacently. 

Her  success  annoyed  him.  He  had  grasped  the  principle 
of  opera  in  Italy  —  it  aims  not  at  illusion  but  at  entertain 
ment  —  and  he  did  not  want  this  great  evening-party  to  turn 
into  a  prayer-meeting.  But  soon  the  boxes  began  to  fill,  and 
Harriet's  power  was  over.  Families  greeted  each  other  across 
the  auditorium.  People  in  the  pit  hailed  their  brothers  and 
sons  in  the  chorus,  and  told  them  how  well  they  were  sing- 

1  See  Bibliography  and  page  142. 

83 


84        "WHERE  ANGELS   FEAR  TO   TREAD" 

ing.  When  Lucia  appeared  by  the  fountain  there  was  loud 
applause,  and  cries  of  "  Welcome  to  Monteriano !  " 

"Ridiculous  babies!"  said  Harriet,  settling  down  in  her 
stall. 

"Why,  it  is  the  famous  hot  lady  of  the  Apennines,"  cried 
Philip ;  "  the  one  who  had  never,  never  before  —  " 

"  Ugh !  Don't.  She  will  be  very  vulgar.  And  I'm  sure 
it's  even  worse  here  than  in  the  tunnel.  I  wish  we'd  never  —  " 

Lucia  began  to  sing,  and  there  was  a  moment's  silence.  She 
was  stout  and  ugly;  but  her  voice  was  still  beautiful,  and  as 
she  sang  the  theatre  murmured  like  a  hive  of  happy  bees.  All 
through  the  coloratura  she  was  accompanied  by  sighs,  and 
its  top  note  was  drowned  in  a  shout  of  universal  joy. 

So  the  opera  proceeded.  The  singers  drew  inspiration  from 
the  audience,  and  the  two  great  sextettes  were  rendered  not 
unworthily.  Miss  Abbott  fell  into  the  spirit  of  the  thing. 
She,  too,  chatted  and  laughed  and  applauded  and  encored,  and 
rejoiced  in  the  existence  of  beauty.  As  for  Philip,  he  forgot 
himself  as  well  as  his  mission.  He  was  not  even  an  enthus 
iastic  visitor.  For  he  had  been  in  this  place  always.  It  was 
his  home. 

Harriet,  like  M.  Bovary  on  a  more  famous  occasion,  was 
trying  to  follow  the  plot.  Occasionally  she  nudged  her  com 
panions,  and  asked  them  what  had  become  of  Walter  Scott. 
She  looked  round  grimly.  The  audience  sounded  drunk,  and 
even  Caroline,  who  never  took  a  drop,  was  swaying  oddly. 
Violent  waves  of  excitement,  all  arising  from  very  little,  went 
sweeping  round  the  theatre.  The  climax  was  reached  in  the 
mad  scene.  Lucia,  clad  in  white,  as  befitted  her  malady, 
suddenly  gathered  up  her  streaming  hair  and  bowed  her  ac 
knowledgment  to  the  audience.  Then  from  the  back  of  the 
stage  —  she  feigned  not  to  see  it  —  there  advanced  a  kind  of 
bamboo  clothes-horse,  stuck  all  over  with  bouquets.  It  was 
very  ugly,  and  most  of  the  flowers  in  it  were  false.  Lucia 


E.M.FORSTER  85 

knew  this,  and  so  did  the  audience;  and  they  all  knew  that 
the  clothes-horse  was  a  piece  of  stage  property,  brought  in  to 
make  the  performance  go  year  after  year.  None  the  less  did 
it  unloose  the  great  deeps.  With  a  scream  of  amazement  and 
joy  she  embraced  the  animal,  pulled  out  one  or  two  practi 
cable  blossoms,  pressed  them  to  her  lips,  and  flung  them  into 
her  admirers.  They  flung  them  back,  with  loud  melodious 
cries,  and  a  little  boy  in  one  of  the  stage-boxes  snatched  up 
his  sister's  carnations  and  offered  them.  "  Che  carino !  "  ex 
claimed  the  singer.  She  darted  at  the  litle  boy  and  kissed 
him.  Now  the  noise  became  tremendous.  "  Silence !  silence !  " 
shouted  many  old  gentlemen  behind.  "  Let  the  divine  crea 
ture  continue!  "  But  the  young  men  in  the  adjacent  box  were 
imploring  Lucia  to  extend  her  civility  to  them.  She  refused, 
with  a  humorous,  expressive  gesture.  One  of  them  hurled  a 
bouquet  at  her.  She  spurned  it  with  her  foot.  Then,  en 
couraged  by  the  roars  of  the  audience,  she  picked  it  up  and 
tossed  it  to  them.  Harriet  was  always  unfortunate.  The 
bouquet  struck  her  full  in  the  chest,  and  a  little  billet-doux 
fell  out  of  it  into  her  lap. 

"  Call  this  classical !  "  she  cried,  rising  from  her  seat.     "  It's 
not  even  respectable!     Philip!  take  me  out  at  once." 


DOROTHY   EASTON'S 
"THE    GOLDEN   BIRD"1 

By  John  Galsworthy 

The  sketch  is,  I  take  it,  commonly  supposed  to  be  the  easiest 
form  that  a  writer  can  use,  and  the  bad  sketch  probably  is. 
The  good  sketch,  on  the  other  hand,  is  about  the  hardest,  for 
there  is  no  time  to  go  wrong,  or,  rather,  in  which  to  recover 
if  one  does  go  wrong.  Moreover*  it  demands  a  very  faithful 
objectivity,  and  a  rare  sensitiveness  of  touch.  The  good 
sketcher  does  not  bite  off  more  than  he  or  she  can  chew,  does 
not  waste  a  word,  and  renders  into  writing  that  alone  which 
is  significant.  To  catch  the  flying  values  of  life,  and  convey 
them  to  other  minds  and  hearts  in  a  few  pages  of  picture  may 
seem  easy  to  the  lay  reader,  but  is,  I  do  assure  him,  mortal 
hard. 

The  sketches  in  this,  the  first  book  of  a  young  writer,  are 
so  really  good,  that  they  should  require  no  preliminary  puff. 
But  the  fact  is  that  the  reading  public  in  America  and  Eng 
land  get  so  few  good  sketches,  indeed  so  few  volumes  of 
sketches  at  all,  that  even  the  best  work  of  this  kind  has  un 
fairly  little  chance. 

If  I  know  anything  and  I  am  not  alone  in  my  opinion,  the 
writer  of  this  book  has  a  sympathetic  apprehension  of  life, 
and  a  perfection  in  rendering  it  which  is  altogether  out  of 
the  common.  Those  readers  who  want  not  snapshots  but  little 
pictures,  entirely  without  preciosity,  extraordinarily  sensitive 
and  faithful,  and  never  dull,  because  they  have  real  meaning 
and  truth,  will  appreciate  this  volume. 

1  See  Bibliography. 

86 


JOHN   GALSWORTHY  87 

Those  who  don't  know  the  southern  countryside  of  England, 
and  the  simpler  people  thereof,  will  make  a  real  acquaintance 
ship  with  it  through  some  of  these  unpretentious  pages.  And 
the  French  sketches,  especially,  by  their  true  flavour  of  French 
life,  guarantee  the  writer's  possession  of  that  spiritual  insight 
without  which  art  is  nothing  worth. 

I  will  beat  the  drum  no  more;  for  if  the  reader  likes  not 
this  mental  fare,  no  noise  of  mine  will  make  him. 

—  Foreword  to  "  The  Golden  Bird." 


WAR  AND   THE   SMALL   NATIONS1 
By  Kahlil  Gibran 

Once,  high  above  a  pasture,  where  a  sheep  and  a  lamb 
were  grazing,  an  eagle  was  circling  and  gazing  hungrily  down 
upon  the  lamb.  And  as  he  was  about  to  descend  and  seize 
his  prey,  another  eagle  appeared  and  hovered  above  the  sheep 
and  her  young  with  the  same  hungry  intent.  Then  the  two 
rivals  began  to  fight,  filling  the  sky  with  their  fierce  cries. 

The  sheep  looked  up  and  was  much  astonished.  She 
turned  to  the  lamb  and  said, 

"  How  strange,  my  child,  that  these  two  noble  birds  should 
attack  one  another.  Is  not  the  vast  sky  large  enough  for  both 
of  them?  Pray,  my  little  one,  pray  in  your  heart  that  God 
may  make  peace  between  your  winged  brothers." 

And  the  lamb  prayed  in  his  heart. 
1  From  "  The  Forerunner."     See  Bibliography. 


A   FIRST   REVIEW1 
By  Robert  Graves 

Love,  Fear  and  Hate  and  Childish  Toys 

Are  here  discreetly  blent; 
Admire,  you  ladies,  read,  you  boys, 

My  Country  Sentiment. 

But  Kate  says,  "  Cut  that  anger  and  fear, 

True  love's  the  stuff  we  need! 
With  laughing  children  and  the  running  deer, 

That  makes  a  book  indeed." 

Then  Tom,  a  hard  and  bloody  chap, 

Though  much  beloved  by  me, 
"  Robert,  have  done  with  nursery  pap, 

Write  like  a  man,"  says  he. 

Hate  and  Fear  are  not  wanted  here, 

Nor  Toys  nor  Country  Lovers, 
Everything  they  took  from  my  new  poem  book 

But  the  flyleaf  and  the  covers. 
1  From  "  Country  Sentiment."    See  Bibliography. 


89 


JOE   WARD1 
By  E.  W.  Howe 

I  was  lately  making  a  little  automobile  journey  and  met 
Joe  Ward,  a  high-priced  man.  We  were  passing  through  the 
town  of  Centerville  and  stopped  a  moment  to  inquire  the  road 
to  Fairview. 

It  happened  that  the  man  we  addressed  was  Joe  Ward  him 
self,  who  said  he  was  just  about  to  leave  for  Fairview  and 
would  show  us  the  way  if  we  would  give  him  a  ride. 

So  he  sat  beside  the  driver  and  turned  round  and  told  us 
about  the  farms  we  passed.  He  knew  every  farmer  on  the 
way;  how  his  crops  were  turning  out  and  many  other  inter 
esting  facts,  for  this  man  was  a  clerk  in  the  New  York  Store 
in  Centerville  and  had  been  so  employed  nine  years. 

When  we  came  to  a  crossroad  he  would  say  "Straight 
ahead  "  or  "  Turn  to  the  right "  to  the  driver  and  then  tell 
us  something  of  interest  about  his  work  in  the  New  York 
Store.  It  seemed  he  was  a  very  popular  clerk;  so  popular, 
indeed,  that  the  proprietor  of  the  Boston  Store,  the  principal 
opposition,  had  long  wanted  him. 

"  But  I  said  to  him  frankly,"  Joe  Ward  explained,  "  if  you 
get  me  you'll  have  to  pay  a  man's  wages.  I'm  no  cheap  skate. 
I  was  born  over  on  Cow  Creek  and  no  citizen  of  that  neighbour 
hood  would  think  of  going  to  Centerville  without  trading  with 
me." 

"  Here,"  I  thought,  "  is  a  very  high-priced  man." 

1This  and  the  following  two  sketches  are  from  Mr.  Howe's  "The 
Anthology  of  Another  Town."  See  page  139. 

90 


: 


E.   W.   HOWE  91 

I  began  wondering  how  much  would  induce  him  to  leave 
the  New  York  Store.  And  he  proceeded  to  tell  us  —  he 
couldn't  keep  a  secret. 

"  Besides  the  pull  I  have  on  Cow  Creek,  my  grandfather 
is  the  leading  farmer  out  the  Fairview  way  and  everybody 
knows  I  control  the  best  trade  round  Fairview.  So  I  says  to 
Persinger,  of  the  Boston  Store:  '  If  you  get  me  you'll  get  the 
best,  but  you'll  have  to  pay  me.  I'm  human  like  everybody 
else;  if  you  pay  me  I'll  work  for  you  and  do  you  all  the 
good  I  can,  but  we  might  as  well  understand  each  other  first 
as  last  —  if  you  get  me  you'll  have  to  pay  me.  I'm  no  ama 
teur.  If  you  get  me  you'll  have  to  pay  me  twelve  dollars  a 
week.' " 

But  it  developed  before  we  reached  the  next  town  that  Per 
singer,  of  the  opposition  store,  wouldn't  stand  an  innovation 
like  that,  so  Joe  Ward  got  out  at  Fairview  and  said  he  was 
going  back  next  morning  to  resume  his  work  at  the  New 
York  Store. 


DOC   ROBINSON 

I  have  noticed  that  the  people  take  as  much  delight  in  prais 
ing  a  worthless  man  as  they  take  in  abusing  a  respectable  one. 
People  say  Doc  Robinson,  the  town  drunkard,  was  once  a  noted 
surgeon  in  London;  that  he  was  engaged  to  a  beautiful  young 
lady  of  New  York,  but  gave  her  up  because  his  parents  ob 
jected,  and  thus  went  to  the  dogs;  that  he  has  the  best  educa 
tion  of  any  man  in  town ;  that  he  is  a  man  of  fine  intellect ;  that 
he  is  a  younger  son  of  a  titled  family  in  England,  and  that 
when  his  brother  dies  he  will  become  a  duke. 

I  looked  Doc  up  and  discovered  that  the  only  notable  thing 
that  ever  happened  in  his  life  was  that  he  attended  a  veterinary 
college  in  Canada,  where  he  was  born  on  a  farm  and  where 
he  lived  until  he  came  to  this  country  to  make  horse  liniment, 
the  basis  of  which,  alcohol,  he  sweetened  and  drank,  and  thus 
became  a  drunkard. 


JOHN  DAVIS 

A  travelling  man  yesterday  gave  John  Davis,  the  grocer,  a 
twenty-cent  cigar.  John  Davis  has  been  selling  cigars  at  his 
grocery  store  and  smoking  twenty  years  —  and  a  good  cigar 
made  him  sick. 


92 


CONCERNING   "A   LITTLE   BOY   LOST" 
A  Letter  from  W.  H.  Hudson^ 

Dear  Mr.  Knopf: 

Your  request  for  a  Foreword  to  insert  in  the  American  re 
print  of  the  little  book  worries  me.  A  critic  on  this  side  has 
said  that  my  Prefaces  to  reprints  of  my  earlier  works  are 
of  the  nature  of  parting  kicks,  and  I  have  no  desire  just  now 
to  kick  this  poor  innocent.  That  evil-tempered  old  woman, 
Mother  Nature,  in  one  of  her  worst  tantrums,  has  been  in 
flicting  so  many  cuffs  and  blows  on  me  that  she  has  left  me 
no  energy  or  disposition  to  kick  anything  —  even  myself. 

The  trouble  is  that  I  know  so  little  about  it.  Did  I  write 
this  book?  What  then  made  me  do  it? 

In  reading  a  volume  of  Fors  Clavigera  I  once  came  upon  a 
passage  which  sounded  well  but  left  me  in  a  mist,  and  it  re 
lieved  me  to  find  a  footnote  to  it  in  which  the  author  says: 
"  This  passage  was  written  many  years  ago  and  what  I  was 
thinking  about  at  the  time  has  quite  escaped  my  memory.  At 
all  events,  though  I  let  it  stand,  I  can  find  no  meaning  in  it 
now." 

Little  men  may  admire  but  must  not  try  to  imitate  these 
gestures  of  the  giants.  And  as  a  result  of  a  little  quiet  think 
ing  it  over  I  seem  able  to  recover  the  idea  I  had  in  my  mind 
when  I  composed  this  child's  story  and  found  a  title  for  it  in 

1  When  I  arranged  with  Mr.  Hudson  for  the  publication  of  an  Amer 
ican  Edition  of  "A  Little  Boy  Lost"  (see  page  136),  I  asked  him  to 
write  a  special  foreword  to  his  American  readers.  He  replied  with  this 
characteristic  letter. 

93 


94  "A   LITTLE   BOY   LOST" 

Blake.     Something  too  of  the  semi-wild  spirit  of  the  child  hero 
in  the  lines: 

"  Naught  loves  another  as  itself  .  .  . 
And,  father,  how  can  I  love  you 
Or  any  of  my  brothers  more? 
I  love  you  like  the  little  birds 
That  pick  up  crumbs  about  the  door." 

There  nature  is,  after  picking  up  the  crumbs  to  fly  away. 

A  long  time  ago  I  formed  a  small  collection  of  children's 
books  of  the  early  years  of  the  nineteenth  century;  and  looking 
through  them,  wishing  that  some  of  them  had  fallen  into  my 
hands  when  I  was  a  child  I  recalled  the  books  I  had  read  at  that 
time  —  especially  two  or  three.  Like  any  normal  child  I  de 
lighted  in  such  stories  as  the  Swiss  Family  Robinson,  but  they 
were  not  the  books  I  prized  most;  they  omitted  the  very  qual 
ity  I  liked  best  —  the  little  thrills  that  nature  itself  gave  me, 
which  half  frightened  and  fascinated  at  the  same  time,  the 
wonder  and  mystery  of  it  all.  Once  in  a  while  I  got  a  book 
with  something  of  this  rare  element  in  it,  contained  perhaps  in 
some  perfectly  absurd  narrative  of  animals  taking  human  shape 
or  using  human  speech,  with  such  like  transformations  and 
vagaries;  they  could  never  be  too  extravagant,  fantastic  and 
incredible,  so  long  as  they  expressed  anything  of  the  feeling  I 
myself  experienced  when  out  of  sight  and  sound  of  my  fellow 
beings,  whether  out  on  the  great  level  plain,  with  a  glitter  of 
illusory  water  all  round  me,  or  among  the  shadowy  trees  with 
their  bird  and  insect  sounds,  or  by  the  waterside  and  bed  of 
tall  dark  bull-rushes  murmuring  in  the  wind. 

These  ancient  memories  put  it  in  my  mind  to  write  a  book 
which,  I  imagined,  would  have  suited  my  peculiar  taste  of  that 
early  period,  the  impossible  story  to  be  founded  on  my  own 
childish  impressions  and  adventures,  with  a  few  dreams  and 
fancies  thrown  in  and  two  or  three  native  legends  and  myths, 
such  as  the  one  of  the  Lady  of  the  Hills,  the  incarnate  spirit 


W.   H.   HUDSON  95 

of  the  rocky  Sierras  on  the  great  plains,  about  which  I  heard 
from  my  gaucho  comrades  when  on  the  spot  —  the  strange 
woman  seldom  viewed  by  human  eye  who  is  jealous  of  man's 
presence  and  is  able  to  create  sudden  violent  tempests  to 
frighten  them  from  her  sacred  haunts. 

That's  the  story  of  my  story,  and  to  the  question  in  your 
publisher's  practical  mind,  I'm  sorry  to  have  to  say  I  don't 
know.  I  have  no  way  of  finding  out,  since  children  are  not 
accustomed  to  write  to  authors  to  tell  them  what  they  think  of 
their  books.  And  after  all  these  excuses  it  just  occurs  to  me 
that  children  do  not  read  forewords  and  introductions;  they 
have  to  be  addressed  to  adults  who  do  not  read  children's 
books,  so  that  in  any  case  it  would  be  thrown  away.  Still  if 
a  foreword  you  must  have,  and  from  me,  I  think  you  will 
have  to  get  it  out  of  this  letter. 

I  remain, 

Yours  cordially, 
W.  H.  HUDSON. 

November  14,  1917. 


ANCIENT   MUSIC 
By  Ezra  Pound 

Winter  is  icummen  in, 
Lhude  sing  Goddamm, 
Raineth  drop  and  staineth  slop, 
And  how  the  wind  doth  ramm! 
Sing:  Goddamm. 

Skiddeth  bus  and  sloppeth  us, 
An  ague  hath  my  ham. 
Freezeth  river,  turneth  liver, 

Damn  you,  sing:  Goddamm. 
Goddamm,  Goddamm,  'tis  why  I  am,  Goddamm, 

So  'gainst  the  winter's  balm. 
Sing  goddamm,  damm,  sing  Goddamm, 
Sing  goddamm,  sing  goddamm,  DAMM. 

NOTE. — This  is  not  folk  music,  but  Dr.  Ker  writes  that  the 
tune  is  to  be  found  under  the  Latin  words  of  a  very  ancient 
canon. 

1  From  "  Lustra  and  Earlier  Poems."    See  Bibliography. 


96 


FIRE   AND   THE   HEART   OF   MAN1 
By  J.  C.  Squire 

It  was  eleven  o'clock  at  night.  I  was  preparing  to  write  an 
essay.  I  was  going  to  write  it  about  a  book.  The  book  was  a 
good  and  a  beautiful  book;  it  filled  me  with  the  noblest 
thoughts,  made  me  a  better  man  and  fit  for  the  most  heroic 
actions.  It  was  full  of  sagacity,  of  sound  reasoning,  of  imag 
ination  checked  by  sense,  of  reflection  shot  through  with  vision. 
It  was  not  only  a  good  book,  but  a  large  and  solid  book,  a 
book  to  be  chewed  like  the  cud,  remembered  and  returned  to, 
a  virtuous  and  courageous  book,  a  book  of  mettle,  a  book  of 
weight.  Unfortunately,  or  fortunately,  just  as  I  had  finished 
reading  the  book  and  was  biting  the  end  of  my  fountain-pen, 
wondering  how  in  God's  name  I  was  to  do  it  justice,  I  looked 
out  of  my  attic  window.  The  trees  stood  dark  across  the  road ; 
the  river  lay  dark  beyond  the  trees;  but  the  light  of  the  stars 
was  not  the  only  light.  On  the  horizon,  behind  some  trees 
and  a  house,  glowing,  reddening,  rolling,  there  was  a  Fire. 

There  may  be  people  who,  when  they  see  Fire  in  the  dis 
tance,  say,  "  Oh,  what  a  pity !  I  hope  the  Insurance  Company 
will  not  suffer  heavily " ;  or  "  What  a  waste  of  material." 
There  may  be  people  who  say,  "  There  is  a  Fire  "  —  and  then 
go  to  bed.  There  may  even  be  people  who  say,  "  Well,  what 
if  there  is  a  Fire?"  —  and  turn  grumpily  to  resume  their 
discussion  about  the  Ethics  of  Palaeontology  or  the  Finances 
of  a  Co-operative  Kitchen.  If  such  people  exist,  I  am  not 

iFrom  "Books  in  General:  Second  Series."    See  Bibliography. 

97 


98  FIRE   AND   THE   HEART   OF  MAN 

among  them.  When  I  saw  this  Fire  I  ran  downstairs  as  hard 
as  I  could  pelt  and  knocked  up  a  neighbour.  I  said  to  him, 
"  There  is  a  Fire.  Look!  "  He  answered,  "  By  Jove!  so  there 
is."  I  said,  "  It  may  be  twenty  miles  away  or  two  miles 
away.  The  farther  the  bigger.  If  it  is  a  long  walk  the  com 
pensation  is  proportionate."  He  said,  "  Wait  a  minute  till  I 
put  on  my  boots."  I  said,  "All  right;  but  buck  up  or  the 
Fire  may  die  down."  He  hurried;  and  we  started  walking. 
We  did  not  know  whither  we  were  walking.  All  we  knew 
was,  and  this  thought  slightly  depressed  us,  that  the  direction 
of  the  Fire  put  out  of  the  question  any  hope  that  it  was  the 
Albert  Memorial  or  the  Queen  Victoria  Memorial  that  was  in 
process  of  combustion. 

We  walked  along  the  river,  past  the  terrace  and  the  cocoa- 
butter  factory,  and  the  nuns'  school,  and  the  creek,  and  the 
boathouses.  The  glare  increased  steadily  as  we  went.  When 
we  reached  the  bridge  it  was  in  full  view.  An  enormous  fac 
tory  was  blazing  away  on  the  edge  of  the  river  below  the 
bridge;  the  great  span  cut  dark  across  the  flames  and  the  glow. 
As  we  climbed  to  the  bridge  we  saw  that  there  was  a  thin  row 
of  silent  people  leaning  over  the  ironwork  —  looking  at  the 
Fire.  The  stars  were  above  them  and  the  velvet  dark  sky; 
the  river  flowed  below  them;  a  few  hundred  yards  away  great 
flames  and  intervolved  clouds  of  smoke  poured  out  of  a  huge 
building,  the  top  windows  of  which  were  almost  intolerably 
bright.  The  roof  had  gone  and  the  pillars  of  stonework  be 
tween  the  windows  looked  like  the  pillars  of  some  ruined  Greek 
temple  against  a  magnificent  gold  sunset.  It  was  all  gold 
and  blue;  the  moving  gold  and  the  still,  all-embracing  blue; 
and  the  crowd  said  nothing  at  all.  There  was  no  sound  except 
when  a  great  stretch  of  masonry  fell  in,  and  then  there  was  a 
swelling  sigh  like  that  which  greets  the  ascent  of  a  rocket  at 
a  firework  display.  There  was  a  wind,  and  it  was  chill;  we 
passed  on  over  the  bridge  and  descended  to  the  tow-path  on 


J.    C.   SQUIRE  99 

the  opposite  bank.  Along  that  path  we  went  until  we  were 
opposite  the  Fire.  About  eight  people,  very  indistinct  in  the 
gloom,  were  scattered  amongst  the  waterside  bushes.  In  front 
of  us  a  fire-boat  took  up  its  position.  Below  and  around  the 
Fire  little  lights  flashed;  there  were  lights  above  the  river 
(which  was  at  low  tide)  ;  voices  shouted  terrifically  from  the 
other  bank;  voices,  addressed  to  'Arry,  answered  from  the  boat, 
and  made  reference  to  a  line.  An  engine  began  working; 
hoses  could  be  seen  sending  rising  and  falling  sprays  of  water 
against  a  blaze  that  seemed  capable  of  defying  all  the  water 
in  all  the  seas. 

There  we  stood,  watching.  Only  one  sentence  did  we  hear 
from  our  awed  neighbours.  There  was  a  man  who  in  the  dark 
ness  looked  portly  and  moustached.  He  took  his  pipe  out 
of  his  mouth  and  said,  optimistically,  "Nice  breeze;  it  ought 
to  fan  it  along."  "  Along  "  meant  an  enormous  oil  warehouse 
and  wharf.  Overhearing  that  remark,  I  told  myself  the  truth. 
The  moral  man  in  me,  the  citizen,  the  patriot,  were  all  fight 
ing  hard  for  supremacy.  I  was  trying  to  say  to  myself :  "  This 
may  mean  ruin  to  somebody;  you  ought  to  pray  that  it  should 
be  got  under  at  once  " ;  and  "  How  can  you  bear  to  see  so 
much  painfully-won  material  wastefully  consumed!  "  and 
"  This  stuff  would  probably  be  useful  at  the  Front ;  it  has 
employed  labour;  its  loss  may  be  serious;  its  replacement 
may  be  difficult;  Germany,  Germany,  Germany,  Germany. 
.  .  ."  But  all  that  company  of  virtuous  selves  fought  a  losing 
battle.  Aloud  or  in  quietness  I  (or  they)  could  say  all  this 
and  much  more;  but  the  still,  small  voice  kept  on  repeating, 
"  Don't  you  be  a  humbug.  It's  too  good.  You  want  this  Fire 
to  spread.  You  want  to  forget  what  it  all  means.  You  will 
be  disappointed  if  the  firemen  got  it  under.  You  would 
like  to  see  the  next  place  catch  fire,  and  the  next  place,  and 
the  next  place,  for  it  would  be  a  devil  of  a  great  display." 
Peccavi;  that  was  certainly  so. 


100  FIRE   AND   THE   HEART   OF   MAN 

They  got  it  under.  They  cornered  it.  Flames  gave  way  to 
a  great  smoke;  the  smoke  grew  and  grew;  the  path  and  the 
bushes  faded  from  red  into  the  indistinct  hue  of  the  starlit 
night.  The  mental  glow  died  down;  we  felt  cold,  and  moved, 
and  walked  towards  home.  And  as  we  walked  I  meditated 
on  the  glory  of  Fire,  fit  subject  for  a  poet,  refreshment  for  the 
human  spirit  and  exaltation  for  the  soul.  My  emotions,  when 
looking  at  it,  had  not  been  entirely  base;  I  had  felt,  not  merely 
a  sensuous  pleasure  in  the  glories  of  that  golden  eruption 
under  the  blue  roof  of  night,  but  wonder  at  the  energies  we 
keep  under,  their  perpetuity  and  their  source,  and  the  grandeur 
of  man,  living  amid  so  much  vastness  and  power,  valiantly 
struggling  to  cope  with  things  greater  than  himself,  save  that 
they  have  no  souls.  And  I  thought  that  in  the  perfect  and 
hygienic  State  where  the  firemen  would  find  water,  water 
everywhere,  where  the  Super-Hose  would  be  in  use,  where 
everything  would  be  built  of  fireproof  materials,  and  where 
extinguishers  of  a  capacity  not  conceived  by  us  would  be 
available  as  a  last  resort,  the  wise  sovereign  would  set  apart 
beautiful  large  buildings,  all  made  of  timber,  filled  with  oil, 
tar  and  sugar,  surrounded  with  waste  land  and  fronted  by  a 
wide  reflecting  river,  which  would  periodically  be  set  on  fire 
for  the  consolation  and  the  uplifting  of  men.  I  don't  want  a 
big  Fire  made  impossible. 

And  I  wondered  why  it  was  that  fire  on  a  huge  scale  had 
never  yet  adequately  inspired  a  poet.  And  then  I  thought 
that  poets  had,  after  all,  done  as  yet  very  little,  considering 
the  materials  that  are  daily  displayed  before  them;  and  then  I 
found  great  comfort  and  courage  in  the  thought  that  the  com 
monplace  things,  the  things  we  all  see  and  know,  live  by  and 
live  with,  have  so  far  merely  been  skirted,  and  that  the  prov 
inces  which  remain  to  be  explored  and  described  and  cele 
brated  by  imaginative  writers  are  endless,  and  that  only  cor 
ners  have  as  yet  been  spied  into. 


PREFACE   TO    "DELIVERANCE"1 
By  E.  L.  Grant  Watson 

When  I  had  completed  my  first  book,  I  had  a  desire  to  write 
a  preface,  but  was  so  strongly  advised  to  let  the  book  carry 
its  own  message  that  I  refrained:  with  the  result  that  only  one 
reviewer  saw  what  I  was  driving  at.  Later  when  the  book 
was  published  in  America,  I  was  asked  by  my  American  pub 
lisher  to  write  the  preface  which  at  first  I  had  desired  to  write. 
Eighty  per  cent,  of  the  American  reviewers  were  not  only 
sympathetic,  but  intelligent.  Having  been  given  the  key,  they 
read  the  book  in  the  mood  in  which  it  was  written.  It  seems 
to  me  permissible  to  provide  such  a  key. 

In  writing  this  my  third  book,  I  have  tried  to  portray  a 
process  of  spiritual  emancipation,  of  a  freedom  which  is  not 
content  to  find  itself  by  any  premature  or  artificial  way  of 
denial.  Emancipation  of  this  kind  is  difficult  enough  even 
for  men;  and  for  women,  whose  lives  are,  by  nature  of  their 
biological  functions,  more  closely  interwoven  in  the  material 
process,  it  is  almost  impossible.  Yet  sometimes  it  is  achieved; 
perhaps  most  frequently  through  long  or  intense  suffering. 
Yet  all  suffering  ultimately  entails  joy;  and  so,  also,  through 
joy.  Such  a  form  of  deliverance  from  the  difficult  complex 
of  material  things  is  not  incompatible  with  the  acceptance  of 
life.  Indeed  the  mistake  has  too  often  been  made,  that  through 
any  haphazard  form  of  renunciation  the  spirit  could  find  a 
short  cut  to  its  own  freedom.  Only  through  the  acceptance 

1  See  Bibliography. 

101 


102  PREFACE   TO   "DELIVERANCE" 

of  life  can  be  attained  a  confidence  strong  enough  'for  the 
happiness  and  that  deliverance. 

In  this  story  I  have  chosen  a  woman  so  sensitive  to  the 
beauty  of  existence  as  to  be  conscious,  through  all  her  youth 
and  adolescence,  of  that  veiled  terror  that  lurks  at  the  very 
heart  of  beauty.  Through  fear  she  learns  first  humility,  then 
courage  and  at  last  attains  the  spiritual  power  that  raises  its 
possessor  above  accident.  And  at  each  step  her  love  for  the 
increasing  light  of  her  own  spirit  grows  stronger.  It  becomes 
more  precious  than  even  the  unique  love  of  woman  for  man. 
It  becomes  the  arbiter  of  life,  determining  with  a  confidence 
unshaken  by  pity  or  desire  the  material  limitations  through 
which  it  can  best  find  expression. 


PART   FOUR 

A   BIBLIOGRAPHY 
OF  ALL   BORZOI   BOOKS 

PUBLISHED   FROM 

25   SEPTEMBER,   1915 

TO   25   SEPTEMBER,   1920 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 

CONRAD  AIKEN 

SCEPTICISMS:  Notes  on  Contemporary  Poetry.  1919.  12- 
mo,  cloth;  306  pages;  $2.00. 

PEDRO  A.  DE  ALARCON 

THE  THREE  CORNERED  HAT.  Translated  by  Jacob  S. 
Fassett,  Jr.  1918.  12mo,  cloth;  208  pages;  $1.50. 

SHALOM  ALEICHEM 

JEWISH  CHILDREN.  Stories  Translated  by  Hannah  Ber- 
man.  1920.  284  pages;  12mo,  cloth;  $2.00. 

LEONID  ANDREYEV 

THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  A  LITTLE  MAN  DURING  GREAT 
DAYS.  Translated  by  R.  S.  Townsend.  1917.  12mo, 
cloth;  244  pages;  [out  of  print]. 

THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER  and  Other  Stories.     Translated  by 
Herman  Bernstein.     1916.     12mo,  cloth;  361  pages;  $2.00. 
THE  LITTLE  ANGEL  and  Other  Stories.     Translated  by  W. 
H.  Lowe.     1915.     12mo,  cloth;  255  pages;  [out  of  print]. 

ANONYMOUS 

GONE  WEST.  By  a  Soldier-Doctor.  Edited  by  H.  M.  G.  and 
M.  M.  H.  With  a  preface  by  Frederick  W.  Kendall.  1919. 
12mo,  cloth;  103  pages;  $1.25. 

THE  BOOK  OF  MARJORIE.  1920.  12mo,  Toyogami 
boards;  128  pages;  $1.50. 

WOMEN.     1919.     12mo,  boards;   159  pages;  $1.25. 

105 


106  A   BIBLIOGRAPHY 

ETIENNE  ANTONELLI 

BOLSHEVIK  RUSSIA.  Translated  by  Charles  A.  Carroll. 
1920.  12mo,  cloth,  319  pages;  $2.50. 

WILLIAM  ARCHER 

GOD  AND  MR.  WELLS.  1917.  12mo,  cloth;  144  pages; 
[out  of  print]. 

INDIA  AND  THE  FUTURE.  1918.  8vo,  cloth;  336  pages 
illustrated;  [out  of  print]. 

ALMA  C.  ARNOLD 

THE  TRIANGLE  OF  HEALTH.  1918.  12mo,  cloth;  188 
pages;  [now  published  by  Dr.  Arnold]. 

MICHAEL  ARTZIBASHEF 

WAR.  A  Play.  Translated  by  Thomas  Seltzer.  1916.  12- 
mo,  boards;  87  pages;  [out  of  print]. 

EMILE  AUGIER 

FOUR  PLAYS.  Translated  by  Barrett  H.  Clark,  with  a  Pref 
ace  by  Brieux.  1915.  Contents :  Olympe's  Marriage  /  Mon 
sieur  Poirier's  Son-in-Law  /  The  House  of  Fourchambault  / 
The  Post-Script.  Small  8vo,  boards;  264  pages;  $2.00. 

PIO  BAROJA 

THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET.     A  Novel.     Translated  by 
Jacob  S.  Fassett.     1917.     12mo,  cloth;  360  pages;  $2.00. 
CAESAR   OR   NOTHING.     A   Novel.     Translated   by   Louis 
How.     12mo,  cloth;  337  pages;  $2.00. 

YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY.  Translated  by  Jacob  S.  Fassett 
Jr.  and  Frances  L.  Phillips.  1920.  Introduction  by  H.  L. 
Mencken.  [Number  1  in  the  Free  Lance  Books.]  12mo,  half 
cloth;  267  pages;  $1.75. 


OF   BORZOI   BOOKS  107 

LILLIAN  BARRETT 

THE  SINISTER  REVEL.  A  Novel.  1919.  12mo,  half  cloth; 
363  pages;  $2.00. 

JOHN  SPENCER  BASSETT 

OUR  WAR  WITH  GERMANY:  A  History.  1919.  8vo, 
cloth;  398  pages,  maps;  $4.00. 

C.  W.  BEAUMONT  AND  M.  T.  H.  SADLER 

NEW  PATHS.  1919.  8vo,  boards;  184  pages,  illustrated; 
[out  of  print]. 

ALEXANDRE  BENOIS 

THE  RUSSIAN  SCHOOL  OF  PAINTING.  Translated  by 
Alexander  Yarmolinsky.  1916.  Small  4to,  boards;  205 
pages,  illustrated;  $5.00. 

KONRAD  BERCOVICI 

CRIMES  OF  CHARITY.  1917.  12mo,  cloth;  278  pages; 
[out  of  print]. 

HERMAN  BERNSTEIN 

THE  WILLY  NICKY  CORRESPONDENCE.  1918.  12mo, 
cloth;  166  pages.  [Now  published  by  Mr.  Bernstein.] 

ALBERTO  BLEST-GANA 

MARTIN  RIVAS.  A  Novel.  Translated  by  Mrs.  Charles 
Whitham.  1918.  12mo,  cloth;  437  pages;  $2.00. 

MAXWELL  BODENHEIM 

ADVICE:  A  Book  of  Poems.  1920.  16mo,  boards;  85 
pages;  $1.25. 

JACOB  BOEHME 
SIX  THEOSOPHIC   POINTS   and   Other  Writings.     Trans- 


108  A  BIBLIOGRAPHY 

lated  by  John  Rolleston  Earle,  M.  A.  1920.  Contents:  Six 
Theosophic  Points  /  Six  Mystical  Points  /  On  the  Earthly  and 
Heavenly  Mysteries  /  On  the  Divine  Intuition.  8vo,  cloth;  220 
pages;  $3.00. 

CONFESSIONS  OF  JACOB  BOEHME.  Compiled  and  Edited 
by  W.  Scott  Palmer.  Introduction  by  Evelyn  Underbill. 
1920.  12mo,  cloth;  189  pages;  $2.00. 

MARY  BORDEN 

THE  ROMANTIC  WOMAN.  A  Novel.  1920.  12mo,  cloth; 
347  pages;  $2.50. 

WILLIAM  ASPINWALL  BRADLEY 

SINGING  CARR  and  Other  Song-Ballads  of  the  Cumberlands. 
1918.  8vo,  paper;  37  pages;  $.75. 

CLAUDE  BRAGDON 

FOUR-DIMENSIONAL  VISTAS.  1916.  8vo,  cloth;  144 
pages;  $2.00. 

ARCHITECTURE  AND  DEMOCRACY.  1918.  8vo,  cloth; 
229  pages,  illustrated;  $2.00. 

ROBERT  BRIDGES 

OCTOBER  and  other  Poems.  1920.  12mo,  boards;  74 
pages;  $1.50. 

EMMA  BEATRICE  BRUNNER 

BITS  OF  BACKGROUND:  In  One-Act  Plays.  1919.  Con 
tents:  Over  Age  /  The  Spark  of  Life  /  Strangers  /  Making  a 
Man.  12mo,  French  boards;  120  pages;  $1.00. 

WITTER  BYNNER 
THE  BELOVED  STRANGER:  Two  Books  of  Song  and  a 


OF   BORZOI   BOOKS  109 

Divertisement  for  the  Unknown  Lover.  Preface  by  William 
Marion  Reedy.  1919.  12mo,  half  cloth;  121  pages;  $1.50. 
A  CANTICLE  OF  PAN  and  Other  Poems.  1920.  12mo, 
half  cloth;  230  pages;  $2.00. 

FELDWEBEL  C  .  .  . 

THE  DIARY  OF  A  GERMAN  SOLDIER.  1919.  12mo, 
boards;  253  pages;  [out  of  print], 

COULSON  T.  CADE 

DANDELIONS.  A  Novel.  1917.  12mo,  cloth;  356  pages; 
$2.00. 

WILLA  GATHER 

YOUTH  AND  THE  BRIGHT  MEDUSA.  1920.  Contents: 
Coming  Aphrodite !/ The  Diamond  Mine  /  A  Gold  Slipper/ 
Scandal  /  Paul's  Case  /  A  Wagner  Matinee /The  Sculptor's 
Funeral/"  A  Death  in  the  Desert."  12mo,  cloth  303  pages; 

$2.25. 

ANNIE  VIVANTI  CHARTRES 

THE  OUTRAGE.  A  Novel.  1918.  12mo,  cloth;  261  pages; 
$1.50. 

SHELDON  CHENEY 

THE  ART  THEATRE.  1917.  12mo,  half  cloth;  251  pages, 
illustrated;  $2.00. 

EUGENE  CHRISTIAN 

EAT    AND    BE    WELL.     1916.     12mo,    cloth;    147    pages; 

$1.25. 

MEATLESS    AND    WHEATLESS    MENUS.     1917.     12mo, 

cloth;  144  pages;  $1.20. 


110  A   BIBLIOGRAPHY 

CHESTER  CORNISH 

BEATING  'EM  TO  IT,  or,  The  Sultan  and  the  Sausages.  Il 
lustrated  by  Alfred  J.  Frueh.  1917.  12mo,  boards;  126 
pages;  [out  of  print]. 

ADELAIDE  CRAPSEY 

A  STUDY  IN  ENGLISH  METRICS.  1918.  8vo,  cloth;  80 
pages;  $1.00. 

WARREN  H.  CUDWORTH  [Translator] 

THE  ODES  OF  HORACE.  1917.  12mo,  cloth;  181  pages; 
$1.50. 

RICHARD  CURLE 

THE  ECHO  OF  VOICES.  Stories,  1917.  12mo,  cloth;  304 
pages;  $2.00. 

WILLIAM  H.  DAVIES 

COLLECTED  POEMS  OF  WILLIAM  H.  DAVIES.     12mo, 
boards;  190  pages;  frontispiece  by  W.  Rothenstein;  $1.50. 
THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SUPER  TRAMP.    With  a 
preface   by   Bernard   Shaw.     1917.     8vo,   cloth;    367   pages; 
$2.50. 

ALLAN  DAVIS  [AND  ANNA  R.  STRATTON] 

THE  INWARD  LIGHT.  A  Play.  1919.  12mo,  cloth;  137 
pages;  $1.35. 

C.  A.  DAWSON-SCOTT 

THE  ROLLING  STONE.  A  Novel.  1920.  12mo,  cloth;  383 
pages;  $2.25. 

CLARENCE  DAY,  JR. 

THIS  SIMIAN  WORLD.  1920.  Illustrated  by  the  author. 
12mo,  cloth;  101  pages;  $1.50. 


OF   BORZOI   BOOKS  111 

L.  j.  DEBEKKER 

THE  PLOT  AGAINST  MEXICO.  Introduction  by  John  Far- 
well  Moors.  1919.  12mo,  cloth;  308  pages,  illustrated; 
$1.50. 

E.  M.  DELAFIELD 

ZELLA  SEES  HERSELF.  A  Novel.  1917.  12mo,  cloth; 
315  pages;  $2.00. 

THE  WAR  WORKERS.  A  Novel.  1918.  12mo,  cloth;  296 
pages;  $2.00. 

THE  PELICANS.  A  Novel.  1919.  12mo,  cloth;  358  pages; 
$2.50. 

CONSEQUENCES.  A  Novel.  1919.  12mo,  cloth;  350 
pages;  $2.50. 

WALTER  DE  LA  MARE 

THE  THREE  MULLA  MULGARS.  Illustrated  by  Dorothy  P. 
Lathrop.  1919.  8vo,  cloth;  275  pages;  boxed;  $5.00. 

FLOYD  DELL 
WERE  YOU  EVER  A  CHILD?     1919.     12mo,  cloth;   206 

pages;  $1.75. 

BEULAH  MARIE  DIX 

MOLOCH.  A  Play.  1916.  12mo,  boards;  102  pages;  [out 
of  print]. 

OSSIP  DYMOW 

NJU.  A  Play.  Translated  by  Rosalind  Ivan.  1917.  12mo, 
boards;  96  pages;  [out  of  print]. 

SOLOMON  EAGLE  [J.  C.  Squire] 

BOOKS  IN  GENERAL.  1919.  8vo,  cloth;  280  pages. 
$2.00. 

BOOKS  IN  GENERAL:  Second  Series.  1920.  8vo,  cloth; 
273  pages;  $2.50. 


112  A   BIBLIOGRAPHY 

MAX  EASTMAN 

COLOURS  OF  LIFE:  Poems  and  Songs  and  Sonnets.  1918. 
16mo,  boards;  129  pages;  $1.25. 

JOURNALISM  VERSUS  ART.  1916.  Square  12mo,  cloth, 
144  pages  illustrated;  [out  of  print]. 

DOROTHY  EASTON 

THE  GOLDEN  BIRD  and  Other  Sketches.  Introduction  by 
John  Galsworthy.  1920.  12mo,  cloth;  281  pages;  $2.00. 

JOSE'  ECHEGARAY 

EL  GRAN  GALEOTO.  Edited  by  Aurelio  M.  Espinosa. 
1918.  12mo,  cloth;  271  pages;  $1.50. 

T.  S.  ELIOT 

POEMS.     1920.     12mo,  boards;  63  pages;  $1.25. 

EZRA    POUND:     His    Metric    and    Poetry.     1918.     12mo, 

boards;  32  pages,  frontispiece;  $.35. 

HAL  G.  EVARTS 

THE  CROSS  PULL.  A  Novel.  1920.  12mo,  cloth;  273 
pages,  frontispiece;  $2.00. 

GUSTAVE  FLAUBERT 

MADAME  BOVARY.  Translated  by  Eleanor  Marx  Aveling. 
•Introduction  by  Burton  Roscoe.  1919.  8vo,  cloth;  455 
pages;  $3.50. 

J.  S.  FLETCHER 

THE  MIDDLE  TEMPLE  MURDER.  1919.  12mo,  cloth; 
319  pages:  $2.00. 

THE  TALLEYRAND  MAXIM.  1920.  12mo;  cloth,  295 
pages;  $2.00. 


OF   BORZOI   BOOKS  113 

THE    PARADISE    MYSTERY.     1920.     12mo,    cloth;    306 

pages;  $2.00. 

DEAD   MEN'S   MONEY.     1920.     12mo,   cloth;    313   pages; 

$2.00. 

WILSON  FOLLETT 

THE  MODERN  NOVEL:  A  Study  of  the  Purpose  and  Mean- 
ing  of  Fiction.  1918.  12mo,  cloth;  336  pages;  $2.00. 

E.  M.  FORSTER 

WHERE  ANGELS  FEAR  TO  TREAD.  A  Novel.  1920. 
12mo,  cloth;  283  pages;  $2.25. 

GILBERT  FRANKAU 

THE  OTHER  SIDE:  and  Other  Poems.  1918.  16mo, 
boards;  80  pages;  $1.00. 

PETER  JAMESON:  A  Romance.  1920.  12mo,  cloth;  439 
pages;  $2.50. 

FUTABATEI 

AN  ADOPTED  HUSBAND.  A  Novel.  Translated  by  M. 
Mitsui  and  Gregg  M.  Sinclair.  1919.  12mo,  half  cloth;  275 
pages;  $2.00. 

ALFRED  GANACHILLY 

THE  WHISPERING  DEAD.  1920.  12mo,  cloth;  281 
pages;  $2.00. 

W.  M.  GARSHIN 

THE  SIGNAL  and  Other  Stories.  Translated  by  Cap 
tain  Rowland  Smith.  1915.  12mo,  cloth;  363  pages;  [out 
of  print]. 

THEOPHILE  GAUTIER 

MADEMOISELLE  DE  MAUPIN.  Translated  from  the  French 
with  an  Introduction  by  Burton  Roscoe.  1920.  8vo,  cloth; 
424  pages;  $4.00. 


114  A  BIBLIOGRAPHY 

KAHLIL  GIBRAN 

THE   MADMAN:     His    Parables    and   Poems.     1918.     With 
three  drawings  by  the  author.     8vo,  cloth;  73  pages;  $1.50. 
TWENTY    DRAWINGS.     With    an    Introductory    Essay    by 
Alice  Raphael.     1919.     4to,  half  cloth;  62  pages;  $5.00. 
[There  is  also  an  edition  of  one  hundred  numbered  copies, 
specially  bound  and  autographed  by  Mr.  Gibran.     $15.00.] 
THE     FORERUNNER:     His    Parables    and    Poems.     1920. 
With    five   drawings   by   the   autho'r.     8vo,   cloth;    64   pages; 
pages;  $1.50. 

NIKOLAI  V.  GOGOL 

THE  INSPECTOR  GENERAL.  A  Comedy.  Translated  by 
Thomas  Seltzer.  1916.  12mo,  boards;  119  pages;  [out  of 
print] . 

TARAS  BULBA:  A  Tale  of  the  Cossacks.  Translated  by 
Isabel  F.  Hapgood.  1915.  12mo,  cloth;  284  pages.  $2.00. 

IVAN  ALEKSANDROVICH  GONCHAROV 
THE  PRECIPICE.     A  Novel.     Translated  from  the  Russian  by 
M.  Bryant.     1916.     12mo,  cloth;  320  pages;   [out  of  print]. 

CARL  H.  GRABO 

THE  WORLD  PEACE  AND  AFTER.  1918.  12mo,  boards; 
154  pages;  $1.25. 

ROBERT  GRAVES 

FAIRIES  AND  FUSILIERS.  Poems.  1918.  16mo,  boardsj 
97  pages;  $1.25. 

COUNTRY  SENTIMENT.  Poems.  1920.  16mo,  boards; 
104  pages;  $1.25. 

J.  B.  HARRIS-BURLAND 
THE    WHITE    ROOK.     1918.     12mo,    boards;  x239    pages; 

$1.75. 


\ 

OF   BORZOI   BOOKS  115 

THE  SHADOW  OF  MALREWARD.     1919.     12mo,  boards; 
336  pages;   $1.90. 

ALEXANDER  HARVEY 

SHELLEY'S  ELOPEMENT.     1918.     8vo,  cloth;  296  pages; 
[out  of  print]. 

OWEN  HATTERAS 

PISTOLS   FOR  TWO.     1917.     Contents:     George  Jean  Na- 
than  /  H.  L.  Mencken.     12mo,  paper;  48  pages;  [out  of  print]. 

HAROLD  M.  HAYS,  Major,  M.  C.,  U.  S.  A. 
,    CHEERIO.     1919.     12mo,    cloth;    297    pages,    frontispiece; 
•-  &1.50. 

OTTO  HELLER 

PROPHETS  OF  DISSENT.     1918.     12mo,  cloth;  228  pages; 
il.50. 

'       DANIEL  HENDERSON 

GREAT   HEART.     Introduction   by   Major-General    Leonard 
-  Wood.     1919.     8vo,  cloth;  256  pages,  illustrated;   $2.50. 

A.  P.  HERBERT 

THE  SECRET  BATTLE.    .A  Nov^l.     1920.     12mo,  cloth;  266 
pages;- $2.00.  ..,,  ' 

THE   BOMBER    GYPSY    and    Other  %>ems.     1920.     16mo, 
cloth;  111  pages;  $1.50. 

JOSEPH  HERGESHEIMER 

THE  LAY  ANTHONY.     A  Roma>iceX     1919  [first  published  ' 
elsewhere  1914].     12mo,  cloth;  316  page|^$2.00. 
MOUNTAIN  BLOOD,    A  Novel.     1919  [ferst  published  else 
where  1915];  12mo,  cloth;  368  pages;  $2.25. 
THE  THREE  BLACK  PENNYS.     A  Novel.     1917.     12mo, 
cloth;  416  pages;  $2.25. 


116  A   BIBLIOGRAPHY 

GOLD     AND      IRON.     1918.     Contents:     Wild     Oranges/ 

Tubal  Cain  /  The  Dark  Fleece.     12mo,  cloth;    332  pages; 

$2.00. 

JAVA  HEAD.     A  Novel.     1919.     12mo,  cloth;   225  pages; 

$2.00. 

[One  hundred   numberer  copies   on   special   paper,   specially 

bound  and  autographed  by  the  author  were  also  sold.] 

THE  HAPPY  END.     1919.     Contents:   Lonely  Valleys  /  The 

Egyptian   Chariot  /  The   Flower   of   Spain  /  ToPable   David  / 

Bread  /  Rosemary  Roselle  /  The  Thrush  in  the  Hedge.     12mo, 

cloth;  315  pages;  $2.00. 

[Fifty  numbered  copies  on  special  paper,  specially  bound  and 

autographed  by  the  author  were  also  sold.] 

LINDA    CONDON.    A    Novel.     1919.     12mo,    cloth;     304 

pages;  $2.00. 

[Fifty  numbered  copies  on  special  paper,  specially  bound  and 

autographed  by  the  author  were  also  sold.] 

CHARLES  F.  HIGHAM 

SCIENTIFIC  DISTRIBUTION.     Introduction  by  James  How 
ard  Kehler.     1918.     12mo,  cloth;   195  pages;  $2.00. 
LOOKING  FORWARD:     Mass  Education  Through  Publicity. 
1920.     12mo,  cloth;  205  pages;  $2.00. 

ARTHUR  HOPKINS 

HOW'S  YOUR  SECOND  ACT.  Introduction  by  George  Jean 
Nathan,  1919.  [First  published  elsewhere  1918.]  12mo, 
boards;  65  pages;  $1.00. 

LOUIS  HOW 

NURSERY  RHYMES  OF  NEW  YORK  CITY.  1919.  16- 
mo,  boards;  71  pages;  $1.00. 


OF   BORZOI   BOOKS  117 

KATHLEEN  HOWARD 

CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER.  1918.  8vo, 
cloth;  273  pages,  illustrated;  [out  of  print]. 

E.  W.  HOWE 

VENTURES  IN  COMMON  SENSE.  1919.  Introduction  by 
H.  L.  Mencken;  [number  2  in  the  Free  Lance  Books];  12mo, 
half  cloth;  273  pages;  $1.75. 

STEPHEN  HUDSON 
RICHARD    KURT.     A    Novel.     1920.     12mo,     cloth;     341 

pages;  $2.25. 

W.  H.  HUDSON 

GREEN  MANSIONS:  A  Romance  of  the  Tropical  Forest. 
With  an  Introduction  by  John  Galsworthy.  1916.  12mo, 
cloth;  368  pages;  $2.50. 

BIRDS  AND  MAN.  1916.  8vo,  cloth;  309  pages,  frontis 
piece;  $3.50. 

TALES  OF  THE  PAMPAS.  1917.  Contents:  El  Ombu/ 
Story  of  a  Piebald  Horse  /  Pelino  Viera's  Confession  /  Nino 
Diablo  /  Marta  Riquelme  /  Tecla  and  the  Little  Men  /  Ap 
pendix  to  El  Ombu.  12mo,  cloth;  261  pages;  $1.50. 
A  LITTLE  BOY  LOST.  1918.  Illustrated  by  A.  D.  M'Cor- 
mick.  8vo,  cloth;  222  pages;  $2.00. 

ALBERT  M.  HYAMSON 

PALESTINE:  The  Rebirth  of  an  Ancient  Nation.  1917. 
8vo,  cloth;  317  pages,  illustrated;  $2.50. 

VICENTE  BLASCO  IBANEZ 

THE  CABIN.  A  Novel.  Translated  by  Francis  Haffkine 
Snow  and  Beatrice  M.  Mekota.  Introduction  by  John  Garrett 
Underbill.  1917.  12mo,  cloth;  310  pages;  $2.00. 


118  A   BIBLIOGRAPHY 

EDGAR  JEPSON 

THE  LOUD  WATER  MYSTERY.  1920.  12mo,  cloth;  285 
pages;  $2.00. 

ORRICK  JOHNS 

ASPHALT:  and  Other  Poems.  1917.  8vo,  boards;  114 
pages.  $1.25. 

GODMUNDUR  KAMBAN 

HADDA  PADDA.  A  Play.  Translated  by  Sadie  Louise  Pel- 
ler.  Foreword  by  Georg  Brandes.  1917.  12mo,  boards;  80 
pages;  [out  of  print]. 

SHEILA  KAYE-SMITH 

SUSSEX  GORSE:  The  Story  of  a  Fight.  1916.  12mo, 
cloth;  468  pages;  $2.50. 

R.  G.  KIRK 

ZANOZA.  1918.  16mo,  boards;  112  pages,  illustrated;  [out 
of  print]. 

ALEXANDER  KORNILOV 

MODERN  RUSSIAN  HISTORY.  Translated  by  A.  S.  Kaun. 
1916.  Two  volumes  8vo,  cloth.  Volume  I  323  pages  with 
maps.  Volume  II  384  pages  with  maps;  $7.50  the  set.  (Sold 
only  in  sets.) 

ALFRED  KREYMBORG 

MUSHROOMS:  A  Book  of  Free  Forms.  1916.  [First  pub 
lished  elsewhere  1916.]  12mo,  boards;  156  pages;  [out  of 
print]. 

OTHERS:  An  Anthology  of  the  New  Verse.  1916.  12mo, 
boards;  160  pages;  [out  of  print]. 

OTHERS:  An  Anthology  of  the  New  Verse.  1917.  12mo, 
boards;  120  pages;  [out  of  print]. 


OF   BORZOI   BOOKS  119 

P.  KROPOTKIN 

IDEALS  AND  REALITIES  IN  RUSSIAN  LITERATURE. 
1915.  8vo,  cloth;  315  pages;  $2.50. 

MUTUAL  AID:  A  Factor  in  Evolution.  1916.  12mo, 
cloth;  251  pages.  $1.50. 

A.  J.  L. 

TALES  AND  TAGS.  Illustrated  by  C.  H.  L.  1918.  8vo, 
half  cloth;  115  pages;  $1.25. 

M.  Y.  LERMONTOV 

A  HERO  OF  OUR  TIME.  A  Novel.  Translated  by  J.  H. 
Wisdom  and  Marr  Murray.  1916.  12mo,  cloth;  344  pages; 
[out  of  print]. 

WYNDHAM  LEWIS 
TARR.     A  Novel.     1918.     12mo,  cloth;  379  pages;  $2.00. 

THE  EARL  LOREBURN 

HOW  THE  WAR  CAME.  1920.  8vo,  cloth;  348  pages  with 
map;  $3.00. 

WILLIAM  LOVETT 

LIFE  AND  STRUGGLES  OF  WILLIAM  LOVETT  in  his  Pur- 
suit  of  Bread,  Knowledge  and  Freedom.  With  some  Short  Ac 
count  of  the  Different  Associations  he  belonged  To  and  of 
the  Opinions  He  Entertained.  Introduction  by  R.  H.  Tawney, 
B.  A.  1920.  Two  Volumes:  16mo,  cloth;  277  and  209  pages; 
$3.00  the  set.  (Sold  only  in  sets.) 

J.  W.  MACKAIL 

RUSSIA'S  GIFT  TO  THE  WORLD.  1915.  8vo,  cloth;  48 
pages;  [out  of  print]. 


120  A   BIBLIOGRAPHY 

PERCY  MACKAYE 

RIP  VAN  WINKLE:  A  Folk  Opera  in  Three  Acts.  1919. 
8vo,  cloth;  97  pages,  illustrated;  $1.50. 

WASHINGTON:  The  Man  who  Made  Us.  1918.  12mo, 
half  cloth;  329  pages,  illustrated;  $2.00. 

THOMAS  MANN 

ROYAL  HIGHNESS:  A  Novel  of  German  Court  Life. 
Translated  by  A.  Cecil  Curtis.  1916.  12mo,  cloth;  372 
pages;  [out  of  print]. 

WILLIAM  SOMERSET  MAUGHAM 

THE  LAND  OF  THE  BLESSED  VIRGIN:  Sketches  and  Im 
pressions  in  Andalusia.  1920.  8vo,  half  cloth;  238  pages, 
frontispiece;  $2.50. 

GUY  DE  MAUPASSANT 

YVETTE  and  ten  Other  Stories.  Translated  by  Mrs.  John 
Galsworthy.  Introduction  by  Joseph  Conrad.  1915.  12mo, 
cloth;  259  pages;  $1.75. 

JOHN  McCLURE 

AIRS   AND    BALLADS.     1913.     12mo,    boards;    84   pages; 

$1.00. 

THE  STAGS  HORNBOOK.     1918.     16mo,  cloth;  446  pages; 

$2.00. 

H.  L.  MENCKEN 

A  BOOK  OF  PREFACES.  (Opus  13).  1917.  Contents: 
Joseph  Conrad/  Theodore  Dreiser/  James  Huneker/  Puritan 
ism  as  a  Literary  Force.  12mo,  cloth;  238  pages;  $2.00. 
PREJUDICES:  First  Series.  1919.  Partial  Contents: 
The  Late  Mr.  Wells/ Arnold  Bennett/ The  Dean/ Professor 
Veblen/The  New  Poetry  Movement /The  Heir  of  Mark 


OF   BORZOI   BOOKS  121 

Twain  /  Hermann  Sudermann  /  George  Ade  /  The  Butte  Bash- 
kirtseff  /  12mo,  cloth;  254  pages;  $2.00. 
IN  DEFENSE  OF  WOMEN.     1919  [First  published  elsewhere 
1918].     12mo,  cloth;  218  pages;   [Temporarily  out  of  print. 
To  be  reissued  in  revised  form  in  1921]. 
A  BOOK  OF  BURLESQUES.     1920  [First  published  elsewhere 
1916].     Partial    Contents:     Death:    a   Philosophical    Discus 
sion/From  the  Program   of   a   Concert /The  Wedding:     A 
Stage  Direction  /  The  Visionary  /  The  Artist :  a  Drama  With 
out  Words.     12mo,  cloth;  237  pages;  $2.00. 
THE    AMERICAN    LANGUAGE.     1919.     8vo,    cloth;    384 
pages;   [Temporarily  out  of  print.     To  be  reissued  in  revised 
form  in  1921]. 

A  BOOK  OF  CALUMNY.  1919.  [First  published  elsewhere 
as  "Damn,"  1918.]  12mo,  cloth;  130  pages;  [out  of  print], 

H.  L.  MENCKEN  [AND  GEORGE  JEAN  NATHAN] 
HELIOGABALUS:     A    Buffoonery    in    Three    Acts.     1920. 
8vo,  cloth;   183  pages;   [out  of  print]. 

[Fifty  numbered  copies  on  special  paper  specially  bound 
and  autographed  by  the  authors  were  also  sold.] 

A.  A.  MILNE 

FIRST  PLAYS.  1920.  Contents:  Wurzel-Flummery  /  The 
Lucky  One  /  The  Boy  Comes  Home  /  Belinda  /  The  Red 
Feathers.  12mo,  cloth;  234  pages;  $2.00. 

FRED  MITCHELL 

FRED  MITCHELL'S  WAR  STORY.  1917.  12mo,  half 
cloth;  240  pages,  illustrated;  $1.50. 

PHILIP  MOELLER 

MADAME  SAND.  With  a  foreword  by  Mrs.  Fiske  and  an 
introduction  by  Arthur  Hopkins.  1917.  12mo,  boards;  167 
pages;  $1.75. 


122  A   BIBLIOGRAPHY 

FIVE  SOMEWHAT  HISTORICAL  PLAYS.  1918.  Cont 
ents  :  Helena's  Husband  /  The  Little  Supper  /  Sisters  of  Su 
sannah  /  The  Roadhouse  in  Arden  /  Pokey.  12mo,  Toyogami 
boards;  157  pages;  $1.50. 

MOLIERE:  A  Romantic  Play.  1919.  12mo,  French 
boards;  239  pages;  $1.50. 

SOPHIE:  A  Comedy.  Prologue  by  Carl  Van  Vechten. 
1919.  12mo,  Toyogami  boards;  264  pages;  $1.75. 

JOHN  MORSE 

IN  THE  RUSSIAN  RANKS.  1916.  12mo,  cloth;  344 
pages;  [out  of  print]. 

EDWIN  MUIR 

WE  MODERNS:  Enigmas  and  Guesses.  1920.  Introduc 
tion  by  H.  L.  Mencken;  [number  4  in  the  Freelance  Books]. 
12mo,  half  cloth;  244  pages.  $1.75. 

JOHN  MURRAY  IV 

JOHN  MURRAY  III.  1919.  12mo,  cloth;  115  pages,  illus 
trated;  $1.50. 

JOHN  MIDDLETON  MURRY 

THE  EVOLUTION  OF  AN  INTELLECTUAL.  1920.  Par 
tial  Contents:  The  Honesty  of  Russia/ The  Dream  of  Dos- 
toevsky/Mr.  Sassoon's  War  Verses/ Realism/ The  Gulf  Be 
tween/  The  Sorrows  of  Satan/  A  Hero  of  our  Time/  The  Prob 
lem  of  Intelligentsia/  The  Defeat  of  Imagination/  The  Re 
public  of  the  Spirit.  8vo,  cloth;  237  pages;  $3.00. 

GEORGE  JEAN  NATHAN 

MR.  GEORGE  JEAN  NATHAN  PRESENTS.  1917.  Partial 
Contents:  The  H^wkshavian  Drama/ The  American  Musical 


OF   BORZOI   BOOKS  123 

Show/  Slapsticks  and  Rosemary/  The  Case  for  Bad  Manners/ 
The  Vaudeville  /  America's  Most  Intellectual  Actress /The 
Case  of  Mr.  Winthrop  Ames.  12mo,  cloth;  310  pages;  $2.00. 
THE  POPULAR  THEATRE.  1918.  Partial  Contents:  The 
Popular  Theatre/  Its  Plays/  Its  Broadway  and  its  Play 
wrights  /  Its  Audiences  /  Its  Music  Shows  /  Its  Comedians  / 
Its  Motion  Pictures/  Its  Actors/  Its  Typical  Season.  12mo, 
cloth;  236  pages;  $2.00. 

COMEDIANS  ALL.  A  Book  of  Contradictory  Criticism. 
1919.  12mo,  cloth;  269  pages;  $2.00. 

A  BOOK  WITHOUT  A  TITLE.  1919.  [First  published  else 
where  1918].  12mo,  boards;  85  pages;  $1.00. 

GEORGE  JEAN  NATHAN  [AND  H.  L.  MENCKEN] 
THE  AMERICAN  CREDO:     A  Contribution  Toward  the  In 
terpretation  of  the  National  Mind.     1920.     12mo,  cloth;  191 
pages;  $1.75. 

FRIEDRICH  NAUMANN 

CENTRAL  EUROPE.  Translated  by  Cristabel  M.  Meredith. 
1917.  8vo,  cloth;  362  pages;  $3.00. 

F.  W.  NIETZSCHE 

THE  ANTICHRIST.  1920.  Translation  and  Introduction  by 
H.  L.  Mencken;  [number  3  in  the  Free  Lance  Books],  12mo, 
half  cloth;  182  pages;  $1.75. 

ALFRED  OLLIVANT 

THE  BROWN  MARE.  1916.  12mo,  cloth;  145  pages. 
[Now  published  by  Doubleday,  Page  &  Co.] 

JAMES  OPPENHEIM 

THE  BOOK  OF  SELF.  1917.  12mo,  boards;  273  pages; 
$2.00. 


124  A   BIBLIOGRAPHY 

ROBERT  OWEN 

THE  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  OWEN  by  Himself.  1920.  Intro 
duction  by  M.  Beer.  16mo,  cloth;  368  pages;  $1.50. 

ROLAND  PERTWEE 

OUR  WONDERFUL  SELVES.  A  Novel.  1919.  12mo, 
cloth;  349  pages;  $2.00. 

SAMUEL  PETERSON 

DEMOCRACY  AND  GOVERNMENT.  1919.  12mo,  cloth; 
304  pages;  $2.00. 

EZRA  POUND 

LUSTRA  of  Ezra  Pound,  with  Earlier  Poems.  1917.  12mo, 
boards;  202  pages;  $1.50. 

PAVANNES  AND  DIVISIONS  1918.  Partial  Contents: 
Jodindranath  Mawhwor's  Occupation/  Aux  Etuves  de  Wies 
baden/  L'Homme  Moyen  Sensuel  /Stark  Realism/  Twelve  Dia 
logues  of  Fontenelle/  Remy  de  Gourmont/  Arnold  Dolmetsch/ 
Troubadours.  8vo,  cloth;  272  pages,  frontispiece;  $2.50. 

EZRA  POUND  [AND  ERNEST  FENOLLOSA] 

"  NOH  "  or  Accomplishment :  A  Study  of  the  Classical  Stage 
of  Japan;  1916.  8vo,  cloth;  276  pages,  frontispiece;  $3.00. 

THE  ABBE  PREVOST 

MANON  LESCAUT.  Translated  from  the  French  with  an  In 
troduction  by  Burton  Roscoe.  1919.  8vo,  cloth;  345  pages; 
$3.50. 

STANISLAW  PRZYBYSZEWSKI 

HOMO  SAPIENS:  A  Novel  in  three  parts.  Translated  by 
Thomas  Seltzer.  1915.  12mo,  cloth;  400  pages;  [out  of 
print] . 


OF   BORZOI   BOOKS  125 

E.  R.  PUNSHON 

THE  SOLITARY  HOUSE.  1918.  12mo,  boards;  301  pages; 
$1.90. 

EDWARD  C.  RANDALL 

THE  DEAD  HAVE  NEVER  DIED.  1918.  12mo,  cloth;  262 
pages;  $2.00. 

M.  E.  RAVAGE 

THE  JEW  PAYS:  A  Narrative  of  the  Consequences  of  the 
War  to  the  Jews  of  Eastern  Europe,  and  of  the  Manner  in 
which  Americans  have  attempted  to  meet  them.  1919.  12- 
mo,  cloth;  161  pages,  illustrated;  $1.50. 

DOROTHY  RICHARDSON 

POINTED   ROOFS.     [Pilgrimage  I].     Introduction  by  May 

Sinclair.     1917.     12mo,  cloth;  303  pages;  $2.00. 

BACKWATER.     [Pilgrimage   II]    1917.     12mo,   cloth;   293 

pages;  $2.00. 

HONEYCOMB.     [Pilgrimage  III]    1918.     12mo,  cloth;   286 

pages;  $2.00. 

THE  TUNNEL.     [Pilgrimage  IV]    1919.     12mo,  cloth;  342 

pages;  $2.50. 

INTERIM.     [Pilgrimage  V]  1920.     12mo,  cloth;  284  pages; 

$2.00. 

JOHN  RUSSELL 

THE  RED  MARK  and  Other  Stories.  1919.  Contents:  The 
Red  Mark/  Doubloon  Gold/  The  Wicks  of  Macassar/  The  Prac 
ticing  of  Christopher/  The  Passion- Vine/  The  Adversary/  The 
Slanted  Beam/ The  Lost  God/ Meaning  —  Chase  Yourself/ 
Jetsam/  East  of  Eastward/  The  Fourth  Man/  The  Price  of  the 
Head/ Amok.  12mo,  cloth;  397  pages.  $2.00. 


126  A   BIBLIOGRAPHY 

CHARLES  SAROLEA 

GREAT  RUSSIA:  Her  Promise  and  Achievement.  1916. 
12mo;  cloth;  264  pages;  [out  of  print]. 

BORIS  SAVINKOV  ["ROPSHIN"] 

WHAT  NEVER  HAPPENED:  A  Novel  of  the  Revolution. 
Translated  by  Thomas  Seltzer.  1917.  12mo,  cloth;  448 
pages;  $2.00. 

THE  PALE  HORSE.  Translated  by  Z.  Vengerova.  1912. 
12mo,  cloth;  196  pages;  [out  of  print.] 

HERBERT  SCHOLFIELD 

SONNETS  OF  HERBERT  SCHOLFIELD.  1919.  12mo, 
half  cloth;  151  pages;  $1.50. 

MARJORIE  ALLEN  SEIFFERT 

A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY.  1919.  12mo,  half  cloth;  135 
pages.  $1.50. 

DON  CAMERON  SHAFER 

BARENT  CREIGHTON:  A  Romance.  1920.  12mo,  cloth; 
335  pages.  $2.00. 

EDWARD  SHANKS 

THE  QUEEN  OF  CHINA  and  Other  Poems.  1920.  8vo, 
half  cloth;  207  pages;  $2.00. 

ELIZABETH  SIMPSON 

PRINCE  MELODY  IN  MUSIC  LAND.  Illustrated  by  Mary 
Virginia  Martin.  1917.  8vo,  cloth;  183  pages;  $1.50. 

OSBERT  SITWELL 

ARGONAUT  AND  JUGGERNAUT.  1920.  12mo,  half 
cloth;  136  pages;  $1.50. 


OF   BORZOI   BOOKS  127 

FEODOR  SOLOGUB 

THE  LITTLE  DEMON.  A  Novel.  Translated  by  John 
Cournos  and  Richard  Aldington.  1916.  12mo,  cloth;  365 
pages;  [out  of  print]. 

THE  OLD  HOUSE.  1916.  Stories.  Translated  by  John 
Cournos.  1916.  12mo,  cloth;  309  pages;  [out  of  print]. 

VLADIMIR  SOLOVIEV 

WAR,  PROGRESS,  AND  THE  END  OF  HISTORY  including 
a  Short  Story  of  the  Anti-Christ;  Translated  by  Alexander 
Bakshy.  1915.  8vo,  cloth;  262  pages;  [out  of  print]. 

THOMAS  SPENCE  [WILLIAM  OGILVIE  AND  THOMAS 

PAINE] 

THE  PIONEERS  OF  LAND  REFORM.  1920.  Contents: 
"  The  Nationalization  of  the  Land,"  by  Thomas  Spence/ 
"  The  Right  of  Property  in  Land,"  by  William  Ogilvie  /"  Ag 
rarian  Justice,"  by  Thomas  Paine.  With  an  Introduction  by 
M.  Beer.  16mo,  cloth;  219  pages;  $1.50. 

J.  C.  SQUIRE 

POEMS:  First  Series.  1919.  8vo,  boards;  115  pages. 
$1.50. 

FRANCIS  ELLINGTON  LEUPP  ["  TATTLER  "] 

NATIONAL  MINIATURES.  1918.  12mo,  cloth ;  296  pages ; 
[out  of  print]. 

LUDWIG  THOMA 

MORAL.  A  Play.  Translated  by  Charles  Recht.  1916. 
12mo,  boards;  100  pages;  [out  of  print]. 


128  A   BIBLIOGRAPHY 

EUNICE  TIETJENS 

BODY  AND  RAIMENT.  Poems.  1919.  12mo,  boards;  83 
pages;  $1.25. 

PROFILES  FROM  CHINA:  Sketches  in  Free  Verse  of  People 
and  Things  Seen  in  the  Interior.  1919.  [First  published 
elsewhere  1917].  12mo,  boards;  77  pages;  $1.25. 

LEO  TOLSTOI 

THE  JOURNAL  OF  LEO  TOLSTOI.  [Translated  by  Rose 
Strunsky.]  1917.  12mo,  cloth;  447  pages;  $2.50. 

H.  M.  TOMLINSON 

OLD  JUNK.  Foreword  by  S.  K.  Ratcliffe.  1920.  8vo, 
cloth;  208  pages;  $2.00. 

JOHN  TREVENA 

MOYLE  CHURCH  TOWN.  1915.  12mo,  cloth;  388  pages; 
[out  of  print]. 

A  DRAKE,  BY  GEORGE!  1916.  12mo,  cloth;  397  pages; 
[out  of  print]. 

W.  B.  TRITES 

BRIAN  BANKER'S  AUTOBIOGRAPHY.  1917.  8vo,  cloth; 
300  pages;  [out  of  print]. 

GEORGE  KIBBE  TURNER 

HAGAR'S  HOARD.  A  Novel.  1920.  12mo,  cloth;  311 
pages;  $2.25. 

ROSS  TYRELL 

THE  PATHWAY  OF  ADVENTURE.  1920.  12mo,  cloth; 
312  pages.  $2.00. 


OF   BORZOI   BOOKS  129 

CARL  VAN  VECHTEN 

MUSIC  AND  BAD  MANNERS.  1916.  Contents:  Music 
and  Bad  Manners/ Music  for  the  Movies/  Spain  and  Music/ 
Shall  we  Realize  Wagner's  Ideals/ The  Bridge  Burners/ A 
New  Principle  in  Music  /  Leo  Ornstein.  12mo,  boards;  243 
pages;  $2.00. 

INTERPRETERS  AND  INTERPRETATIONS.  1917.  12 
mo,  cloth;  368  pages  [out  of  print]. 

THE  MERRY-GO-ROUND.  1918.  Partial  Contents:  In 
Defense  of  Bad  Taste  /  Music  and  Super-music  /  The  New  Art 
of  the  Singer/  Music  and  Cooking/  The  Authoritative  Work 
on  American  Music/  De  Senectute  Cantorum.  12mo,  boards ; 
334  pages;  $2.00. 

THE  MUSIC  OF  SPAIN.  1918.  Contents:  Spain  and 
Music/  The  Land  of  Joy/  From  George  Borrow  to  Mary 
Garden  /  Notes.  12mo;  boards;  illustrated;  223  pages; 
$1.50. 

IN  THE  GARRET.  1920.  Partial  Contents:  Variations  of 
a  Theme  by  Havelock  Ellis  /  The  Folk  Songs  of  Iowa  /  Isaac 
Albeniz  /  The  Holy  Jumpers  /  Sir  Arthur  Sullivan  /  On  the  Re 
writing  of  Masterpieces/ Oscar  Hammerstein:  An  Epitaph/ 
In  the  Theatres  of  the  Purlieus.  12mo,  boards;  347  pages; 
$2.00. 

INTERPRETERS.  1920.  Contents:  Fremstad/ Farrar/ 
Mary  Garden  /  Chaliapine  /  Mazarin  /  Yvette  Guilbert  /  Nijin- 
sky  /  Epilogue.  12mo,  boards;  202  pages,  illustrated;  $2.00. 

VIKENTY  VERESSAYEV 

THE  MEMOIRS  OF  A  PHYSICIAN.  Translated  by  Simeon 
Linden.  Introduction  and  notes  by  Henry  Pleasants,  Jr.  M.  D. 
1916.  12mo,  cloth;  390  pages;  [out  of  print]. 

A.  HYATT  VERRILL 

A  BOOK  OF  CAMPING.  1917.  12mo,  cloth;  illustrated; 
195  pages.  [Now  published  by  Barse  and  Hopkins.] 


130  A   BIBLIOGRAPHY 

P.  VINAGRADOFF 

THE  RUSSIAN  PROBLEM.  1914.  [First  published  else 
where  1915.]  8vo,  cloth,  52  pages;  [out  of  print]. 

DE  VOGUE 

THE  RUSSIAN  NOVEL.  Translated  by  Colonel  H.  A.  Saw 
yer.  1915.  [First  published  elsewhere  1915.]  8vo,  cloth; 
348  pages,  illustrated;  [out  of  print]. 

WILLIAM  ENGLISH  WALLING 

RUSSIA'S  MESSAGE:  The  People  against  the  Czar.  1917. 
8vo,  cloth;  245  pages,  illustrated;  [out  of  print]. 

ARTHUR  WALEY 

170  CHINESE  POEMS.     1919.     8vo,  half  cloth;  243  pages; 

$2.50. 

MORE    TRANSLATIONS    FROM    THE    CHINESE.     1919. 

8vo,  half  cloth;  144  pages.     $2.00. 

GRAHAM  WALLAS 

THE  LIFE  OF  FRANCIS  PLACE  (1771-1854).  1919.  8vo, 
cloth;  431  pages,  frontispiece;  $3.50. 

E.  L.  GRANT  WATSON 

WHERE  BONDS  ARE  LOOSED.    A  Novel.     1917.      12mo, 

boards;  304  pages;  $2.00. 

THE    MAINLAND.     A    Novel.     1917.     12mo,    cloth;     311 

pages;  $2.00. 

DELIVERANCE.     A  Novel.     1920.     12mo,  cloth;  322  pages; 

$2.25. 

ALDEN  W.  WELCH 
WOLVES.     A  Novel.     12mo,  cloth;  236  pages;  $1.40. 


OF   BORZOI   BOOKS  131 

LOUIS  WILKINSON 

THE  BUFFOON.     A  Novel.     1916.     12mo,  cloth;  428  pages; 

$2.50. 

A  CHASTE  MAN.    A  Novel.     1917.     12mo,  cloth;  338  pages; 

$2.50. 

BRUTE  GODS.     A  Novel.     1919.     12mo,  cloth,  355  pages; 

$2.00. 

CORA  LENORE  WILLIAMS 

CREATIVE  INVOLUTION.  Introduction  by  Edwin  Mark- 
ham.  1916.  12mo,  cloth;  222  pages.  [Now  published  by 
Miss  Williams.] 

HAROLD  WILLIAMS 

MODERN  ENGLISH  WRITERS:  A  Study  of  Imaginative 
Literature  1890-1914.  8vo,  534  pages;  $6.00. 


POSTSCRIPT 

A  number  of  books  are  scheduled  for  publication  in  October. 
Some  will  doubtless  be  delayed,  as  manufacturing  conditions 
are  still  difficult  and  transportation  none  too  certain.  How 
ever,  I  am  bound  to  have  out  before  the  holidays  three  unusu 
ally  charming  gift  books. 

Van  Vechten's  "  The  Tiger  in  the  House  "  is  the  only  com 
plete  account  in  English  of  the  domestic  cat.  It  is  Carlo's 
magnum  opus  and  I  have  made  in  it,  I  think,  quite  the  hand 
somest  of  all  my  books.  A  large  octavo  bound  in  half  can 
vas  with  purple  Japanese  Toyogami  sides  stamped  in  gold. 
The  text  is  set  in  Caslon  old  style  type,  and  printed  on  India 
Tint  Art  Craft  laid  paper  and  since  no  more  of  this  is  to  be 
manufactured  till  the  indefinite  future  —  if  then  —  the  edition 
for  1920  consists  of  only  two  thousand  numbered  copies.  The 
book  runs  to  almost  four  hundred  pages,  with  bibliography 
and  index  and  there  are  thirty-two  full  pages  of  the  most 
charming  cat  pictures  you  ever  saw.  The  price  should  be 
seven-fifty. 

I  am  peculiarly  proud  to  offer  "  Seven  Men  "  by  Max  Beer- 
bohm  —  the  "  incomparable  Max."  These  five  stories  were 
published  in  London  last  year  by  William  Heinemann,  but  my 
edition  will  be  different.  For  "  Max  "  has  given  us  an  inim 
itable  appendix  and  six  drawings  to  illustrate  it  and  neither 
text  nor  pictures  have  ever  been  printed  before.  Thus  the 
Borzoi  "  Seven  Men  "  becomes  a  real  "  first "  and  an  item  for 
collectors.  On  this  account  and  because  in  order  to  give  the 
book  the  odd  shape  (square  octavo)  I  wanted  I  had  to  have 
the  paper  specially  manufactured,  the  first  printing  consists 

133 


134  POSTSCRIPT 

of  just  two  thousand  numbered  copies.  It  will  probably  be 
impossible  to  make  further  copies  before  next  year.  The  prob 
able  price  —  four  dollars. 

W.  H.  Hudson's  "A  Little  Boy  Lost"  is  now  accepted,  I 
fancy,  as  a  classic  for  children  of  all  ages.  Dorothy  P.  Lath- 
rop,  whom  many  of  you  will  remember  for  her  delightfully 
imaginative  pictures  done  last  year  for  Walter  de  la  Mare's 
"  The  Three  Mulla  Mulgars,"  has  illustrated  the  Hudson  book 
con  anwre.  The  result  is  a  singularly  fine  large  octavo  — 
wholly  successful,  I  think,  as  to  paper,  printing,  and  binding. 
I  hoped  this  would  not  cost  more  than  five  dollars,  but  I  fear 
the  price  must  be  set  at  six. 

(By  the  way,  I  should  like  readers  to  realize  this:  that  I 
try  to  make  Borzoi  Books  as  well  as  I  know  how.  Then  I 
base  the  price  on  what  they  cost  to  make.  I  do  not  fix  the 
price  first  and  then  try  to  trim  the  quality  so  as  to  come 
within  that  price.) 

Joseph  Hergesheimer's  "  San  Cristobal  de  la  Habana  "  is 
not  fiction.  It  is  about  Havana  —  full  of  the  colour  he  loves 
and  of  which  he  is  a  master  —  and  Joe  himself.  It  will  please 
and  interest  his  friends;  it  will  probably  enrage  his  enemies. 
But  so  engaging  and  candid  a  book  will  certainly  be  read. 
The  first  edition  at  any  rate  will  be  printed  on  Warren's  India 
Tint  Olde  Style  paper  and  bound  in  half  black  cloth,  with 
Chinese  Orange  board  sides  spattered  with  gold.  Three  fifty 
is  the  price  and  there  will  be  a  hundred  numbered  copies 
printed  on  Shathmore  Laid  paper,  specially  bound  and  auto 
graphed  at  seven-fifty. 

I  planned  Mencken's  "  Prejudices  "  to  be  an  annual  affair 
and  the  second  series  will  be  ready  in  October.  It  will  be  as 
provoking  (and  I  hope  and  believe  as  popular)  as  its  prede 
cessor,  though  it  will  deal  less  with  books  and  more  with  the 
ideas  underlying  them.  The  price  will  remain,  for  the  moment 
anyway,  two  dollars. 


POSTSCRIPT  135 

"  The  Gate  of  Ivory  "  is  Sidney  L.  Nyburg's  latest  and  by 
far  his  most  ambitious  novel.  The  scene  is  the  Baltimore  of 
not  so  many  years  ago,  and  the  story  of  Eleanor  Gwynn,  irre 
sponsible,  but  brimful  of  audacity  and  charm,  and  Allen 
Conway,  is  close  enough  to  the  facts  of  a  famous  Maryland 
scandal  to  start  it  fairly  on  the  way  to  the  success  I  think  it 
deserves.  Two  twenty-five,  but  as  is  likely  to  be  the  case  with 
many  books,  the  price  will  have  to  go  up  with  subsequent 
editions,  as  a  considerable  increase  in  binding  costs  is  expected 
this  fall  as  well  as  some  increase  in  printing. 

I  have  the  greatest  confidence  in  Floyd  Dell.  He's  a  differ 
ent  fellow,  though,  and  doesn't  seem  to  have  anything  like  the 
same  kind  of  confidence  in  himself.  But  anyway  last  year  I 
got  him  to  write  "Were  You  Ever  a  Child?"  —  essays  on 
education  as  charming  as  their  title,  and  now  —  at  long  last  — 
I  have  his  first  novel.  "  Moon-Calf  "  is  a  real  book  or  I'm 
sadly  mistaken.  It's  by  far  the  best  first  novel  by  an  Amer 
ican  that  has  ever  been  offered  me.  The  scene  is  our  Middle 
West,  and  the  story  —  obviously  autobiographical  —  shows 
the  influence  of  H.  G.  Wells  in  a  way  that  marks,  I  think,  a 
new  note  in  our  literature.  Anyway  I  recommend  "  Moon- 
Calf  "  to  every  reader  who  cares  a  damn  for  my  opinion  of  a 
novel;  I  want  the  book  to  sell  so  that  Floyd  Dell  may  be 
amply  encouraged  to  do  its  sequel  (when  you  read  it  you'll 
see  it  has  to  have  one) .  Probable  price  two-fifty. 

Andre  Tridon's  "  Psychoanalysis  and  Behavior "  is  rather 
more  of  a  real  book  than  his  first.  It  has  a  more  organic 
unity  —  reads  easier  and  is  all  in  all  a  more  finished  product. 
Incidentally  —  though  Tridon  told  me  once  that  he  was  going 
to  rewrite  his  first  book  every  year  for  a  different  publisher  — 
"  Psychoanalysis  and  Behavior  "  duplicates  none  of  the  mate 
rial  in  "  Psychoanalysis."  The  price  is  two-fifty. 

The  Atlantic  Monthly  occupies  a  unique  position  among 
our  magazines,  and  most  publishers,  I  think,  realize  the  recom- 


136  POSTSCRIPT 

mendation  that  serialization  in  it  carries  to  readers  of  books. 
I  am  particularly  glad,  therefore,  to  say  that  Mr.  Sedgwick 
printed  several  instalments  of  "Letters  of  a  Javanese  Prin 
cess  "  by  Raden  Adjeng  Kartini  in  his  magazine,  where  they 
aroused  a  good  deal  of  interest  and  discussion.  The  original 
manuscript  was  very  long  and  contained  much  indifferent  mate 
rial,  so  under  our  direction  the  translator,  Mrs.  Symmers,  cut 
it  down  and  prepared  a  careful,  informing,  introduction  about 
Kartini,  who,  by  the  way,  was  the  youngest  daughter  of  a 
Javanese  regent  and  probably  the  first  feminist  of  the  Orient. 
Then  at  the  suggestion  of  Mrs.  Knopf,  whose  favourite  book  this 
is,  I  asked  Louis  Couperus,  the  great  Dutch  novelist,  to  write  a 
special  introduction  for  our  edition.  His  pages,  few,  but 
wholly  charming,  are  an  interesting  feature  of  the  book.  A 
square  octavo:  probable  price,  four  dollars. 

I  have  reason  to  believe  that  "  The  Foundations  of  Social 
Science,"  by  James  Mickel  Williams,  is  a  book  that  one  can 
justly  term  epoch-making.  Anyway,  the  work  represents  al 
most  ten  years  out  of  the  author's  life  —  years  spent  teaching 
in  a  small  college  rather  than  a  large  one,  because  only  there 
could  he  hope  to  have  sufficient  time  to  devote  to  it.  The 
manuscript  was  read  for  the  author,  and  offered  me  for  pub 
lication  by  an  authority  in  whom  I  have  the  very  greatest  con 
fidence  —  Charles  A.  Beard,  formerly  Professor  of  Politics  at 
Columbia  University  and  now  director  of  the  Bureau  of  Munic 
ipal  Research  in  New  York.  In  his  book  Professor  Williams 
explains  the  human  element  in  the  motives  of  respect  for 
law  and  the  causes  of  increasing  disrespect;  the  economic  and 
political  attitudes  of  employers  on  the  one  hand  and  labour  on 
the  other;  progressive  and  reactionary  judicial  attitudes,  espe 
cially  with  respect  to  labour  legislation;  the  causes  of  national 
feeling  and  international  rivalry  and  the  difficulties  in  estab 
lishing  a  League  of  Nations.  Ought  not  such  a  work  prove  of 
value  and  interest  to  intelligent  citizens  today?  It  will  be  a 


POSTSCRIPT  137 

large  octavo  running  to  over  five  hundred  pages  and  the  price 
will  probably  be  six  dollars. 

Last  year  Mr.  Mencken  got  for  me,  and  I  published  in  his 
The  Free  Lance  Books,  "Ventures  in  Common  Sense,"  by  E. 
W.  Howe,  of  Atchison,  Kansas.  Immediately  afterwards  most 
enthusiastic  letters  reached  the  author  from  the  big  editors  in 
the  country  —  such  men  as  Edward  Bok,  late  of  The  Ladies' 
Home  Journal,  John  M.  Siddall  of  The  American  Magazine, 
Don  C.  Seitz  of  The  New  York  World,  as  well  as  letters  from 
the  presidents  of  very  large  corporations  telling  of  their  ad 
miration  for  Mr.  Howe's  philosophy.  It  seemed  to  me  then 
as  it  does  now  that  whether  or  not  you  agree  with  him  —  and 
more  than  likely  you  will  disagree  —  Mr.  Howe  should  be 
more  widely  known,  particularly  in  the  East.  His  unique 
little  monthly  is  read  almost  exclusively  by  the  really  import 
ant  people  of  the  country,  but  the  average  man  or  woman 
would  find  it  highly  entertaining.  For  "  Ed  "  Howe  is  the 
Middle  West  and  the  plain  American  incarnate  and  in  his 
new  book,  "  The  Anthology  of  Another  Town,"  he  presents  a 
panorama,  really,  of  a  typically  middle  western  small  town. 
The  price  is  two  dollars. 

A  very  important  event  in  the  book  world  will  be,  I  think, 
the  publication  of  a  translation  of  Knut  Hamsun's  "  Hunger." 
It  is  difficult  to  say  why  Hamsun  is  not  known,  really  widely 
known,  in  the  United  States.  A  translation  of  one  of  his 
books  was  published  a  few  years  ago.  But  those  who  know 
Hamsun  in  the  original  seem  to  agree  that  "  Shallow  Soil  " 
was  the  worst  possible  novel  to  select  for  launching  him  in 
America.  I  have  been  told  of  the  greatness  of  Hamsun  for 
a  full  five  years  now  and  at  last  I  am  stirred  to  action.  There 
can  be  no  question  whatever  that  he  is  far  and  away  the  lead 
ing  Scandinavian  writer  of  the  day,  and  if  one  may  judge  from 
the  acclaim  with  which  "  Growth  of  the  Soil  "  has  been  re 
ceived  in  England,  one  of  the  very  greatest  writers  of  our  age. 


138  POSTSCRIPT 

You  can  read  about  him  in  The  Encyclopoedia  Britannica 
and  you  will  learn  there  that  "  Hunger  "  is  the  book  that  first 
made  him  famous  —  almost  a  generation  ago.  This  compe 
tent  translation  was  first  published  in  England  in  1899,  but 
Edwin  Bjorkman's  informing,  useful  introduction,  was  spe 
cially  written  for  me. 

Many  who  read  this  have  doubtless  already  seen  the  little 
printed  fall  announcements  that  went  out  from  my  office  some 
months  ago.  In  some  respects  this  announcement  is  inaccu 
rate.  For  example,  I  shall  not  publish  de  Bekker's  "  Cuba." 
Mr.  de  Bekker  was  delayed  in  getting  the  manuscript  written 
and  as  the  book  required  elaborate  and  special  handling  from 
an  advertising  point  of  view  —  it  was  to  carry  much  advertis 
ing  matter  —  I  decided  finally  that  since  he  was  able  to  get 
another  publisher  it  would  be  better  so. 

Over  a  year  ago  I  persuaded  Dr.  A.  A.  Goldenweiser  of  The 
New  York  School  for  Social  Research  to  undertake  to  write  a 
good  general  introduction  to  anthropology  —  for  the  average 
reader.  This  was  announced  as  "  The  Groundwork  of  Civiliza 
tion,"  but  as  Dr.  Goldenweiser  has  only  just  delivered  his 
manuscript,  the  book  must  go  over  until  next  year. 
***** 

And  now  I  would  like  to  say  something  about  my  plans  for 
1921.  In  a  general  sort  of  way  I  want  to  give  more  attention 
to  the  work  of  American  authors  and  publish  more  American 
books.  American  publishers  show,  I  believe,  altogether  too 
much  deference  to  work  that  reaches  us  from  England.  Obvi 
ously  most  of  the  time  the  young  English  novelist  is  a  better 
craftsman  than  the  American,  but  there  are  springing  up  all 
over  the  United  States  —  in  Detroit,  St.  Louis  and  Washington 
as  well  as  New  York,  men  and  women  who  do  know  how  to 
write  and  who  have  observed  to  advantage  the  life  about  them. 
To  bring  forward  work  of  this  kind  shall  be  my  chief  aim. 
However,  we  must  give  the  devil  his  due  even  if  he  be  a  for- 


POSTSCRIPT  139 

eigner,  and  I  am  quite  sure  that  the  feature  of  our  spring  list 
(I  cannot  be  positive  of  this  because  at  the  time  of  writing 
negotiations  are  still  in  progress)  will  be  our  representation 
in  America  of  the  great  Danish  house  of  Gyldendal.  Gylden- 
dal  were  established  in  Copenhagen  in  1770  and  control  today 
the  majority  of  the  best  books  published  in  Denmark  and  Nor 
way.  Not  long  ago  they  opened  a  branch  in  London  espe 
cially  for  the  publication  of  English  translations  of  the  books 
they  control.  I  plan  next  spring  to  bring  out  the  first  of  these, 
as  follows: 

"  Growth  of  the  Soil,"  by  Knut  Hamsun.  H.  G.  Wells  has 
written  Messrs.  Gyldendal  as  follows  regarding  this  novel : 

Easton  Glebe, 
Dunmow, 

June  18,  1920. 
Dear  Sirs: 

I  have  not  yet  written  to  thank  you  for  sending  me 
"  Growth  of  the  Soil  "  and  making  me  acquainted  with  the 
work  of  Knut  Hamsun.  I  am  ashamed  to  say  I  have  never 
before  read  a  book  by  this  great  writer  and  indeed  I  did  not 
know  of  his  existence  until  now.  It  amazes  me  that  he  has  so 
long  been  kept  from  the  English  reading  public  and  the  sooner 
you  give  us  more  of  him  the  better  I  shall  be  pleased.  I  do  not 
know  how  to  express  the  admiration  I  feel  for  this  wonderful 
book  without  seeming  to  be  extravagant.  I  am  not  usually 
lavish  with  my  praise  but  indeed  the  book  impresses  me  as 
among  the  very  greatest  novels  I  have  ever  read.  It  is  wholly 
beautiful;  it  is  saturated  with  wisdom  and  humour  and  ten 
derness;  these  peasants  are  a  triumph  of  creative  understand 
ing.  I  have  seen  no  reviews  here  that  do  justice  to  this  work. 
But  I  find  my  friends  talking  of  it  and,  as  it  were,  getting 
up  their  courage  to  appreciate  it  at  its  proper  value.  Give  us 
one  or  two  more  books  by  Hamsun  in  English  and  our  sluggish 


140  POSTSCRIPT 

but  on  the  whole  fairly  honest  criticism  will  begin  to  realize 
the  scale  he  is  built  upon  —  /  say  as  much. 

Very  sincerely  yours, 

(Signed)  H.  G.  WELLS. 

"  The  Song  of  the  Blood  Red  Flower,"  by  the  Finn,  Johannes 
Linnankoski  —  a  poetical  tale  of  love  which  has  created  a 
veritable  furor  on  the  continent. 

"  Grim,"  from  the  Danish  of  Svend  Fleuron,  a  remarkable 
nature  story  —  the  life  of  a  pike. 

"  Jenny,"  by  a  Danish  woman  novelist,  Sigrid  Undset  —  to 
my  mind  an  intensely  interesting  feminist  novel  —  honest,  con 
vincing  and  moving. 

"  The  Sworn  Brothers,"  a  stirring  tale  of  ancient  Iceland, 
by  Gunnar  Gunnarsson,  the  leading  Icelandic  novelist  —  and 
a  man  who  will  bear  watiching.  (His  "  Guest  the  One-Eyed  " 
will  follow.) 

Once  these  books  are  out  I  expect  that  Gyldendal  will  send 
me  over  four  or  six  new  ones  each  season. 

There  will  be  two  new  detective  stories  by  J.  S.  Fletcher, 
entitled  probably  "  The  Chestermarke  Instinct "  and  "  The 
Borough  Treasurer,"  as  well  as  "  The  Wine  of  Life,"  a  novel 
of  the  studio  and  the  stage  by  Arthur  Stringer,  author  of  "  The 
Prairie  Mother,"  etc.  Late  in  the  season  I  expect  to  publish  a 
new  book  by  E.  R.  Punshon,  whose  "  The  Solitary  House " 
was  so  well  received  two  years  ago.  "  Old  Fighting  Days  "  is 
an  exciting  tale  of  adventure  and  of  the  ringside  in  England 
in  the  days  of  Napoleon.  These  are  books  for  entertainment 
pure  and  simple,  but  the  volume  of  animal  stories,  by  Hal  G. 
Evarts,  author  of  "  The  Cross  Pull,"  should  be  more  than  just 
that;  — in  fact,  of  universal  and  compelling  interest. 

January  second  should  see  the  appearance  of  George  Jean 
Nathan's  new  book,  "  The  Theatre,  the  Drama,  the  Girls."  It 
will  be  very  similar  to  his  last,  "  Comedians  All,"  quite  his 


POSTSCRIPT  141 

most  successful  —  so  far.  At  the  same  time  John  V.  A. 
Weaver's  book  of  poems  in  the  American  language,  should  be 
ready.  We  are  calling  it  "  In  America,"  and  it  ought  to  at 
tract  a  great  deal  of  attention.  The  poems  tell  for  the  most 
part,  good  stories  in  the  fascinating  American  vernacular. 

This  will  be  followed  after  an  interval  with  a  book  (as  yet 
unnamed)  of  characteristic  light  verse  by  "  Morrie  "  Ryskind. 
"  Morrie  "  is  one  of  the  best-known  contributors  to  F.  P.  A.'s 
famous  The  Conning  Tower  in  The  New  York  Tribune,  and 
F.  P.  A.  himself  has  had  not  a  little  to  do  with  the  getting 
together  of  this  book. 

For  a  great  many  years  all  sorts  of  people  whose  opinions 
I  respect  have  been  talking  to  me  about  the  novels  of  E.  M. 
Forster.  Finally  Mr.  Galsworthy,  when  he  was  last  over  here, 
told  me  about  "  Where  Angels  Fear  to  Tread,"  which  had  never 
been  published  in  the  United  States.  I  issued  it  last  year,  and 
although  it  did  not  have  the  sale  I  had  hoped  for,  I  am  going 
right  on  reissuing  Mr.  Forster's  novels.  The  next  will  be 
"  Howard's  End,"  which  has  been  out  of  print  for  a  number 
of  years.  The  regard  which  competent  critics  have  for  Mr. 
Forster's  work  is  very  striking.  A  number  of  them,  in  fact, 
feel  certain  that  it  is  only  a  matter  of  time  before  Forster's 
work  will  be  revived  as  has  been  that  of  Samuel  Butler.  We 
shall  see.  Meanwhile  I  have  two  other  novels  by  Forster  in 
line  for  publication,  one  of  which  has  never  been  published 
in  America. 

Early  last  year  I  published  "The  Secret  Battle,"  a  first 
novel  by  A.  P.  Herbert,  a  young  Englishman.  The  book  to 
me  is  still,  as  it  was  then,  the  very  finest  English  novel  that  has 
come  out  of  the  war.  Mr.  Herbert  has  written  a  second  novel 
entitled  "  The  House  by  the  River."  It  is  not,  like  "  The  Secret 
Battle,"  the  overflow  of  an  intense  emotional  experience  —  it 
has  nothing  to  do  with  the  war.  It  is,  in  fact,  a  first  rate  mur 
der  story  and  of  a  very  unusual  kind.  But  the  style  of  the  first 


142  POSTSCRIPT 

book  is  there, —  my,  how  the  man  can  write  —  the  style  that 
The  Westminster  Gazette  said  was  "  in  many  ways  reminiscent 
of  Defoe's  ...  the  model  of  the  plain  tale  ...  in  which  no 
artistic  method  of  purpose  obtrudes  itself,  but  which  never 
theless  makes  a  single  decisive  artistic  effect  on  the  reader." 

Some  other  poetry  will  be  Richard  Aldington's  "  Medallions 
in  Clay,"  translations  mostly  from  the  Greek;  Conrad  Aiken's 
"  Punch :  the  Immortal  Liar  "  —  a  splendid  title  I  think  —  and 
a  volume  by  Michael  Strange  to  be  illustrated  by  John  Barry- 
more. 

Andre  Tridon  will  have  a  new  volume  entitled  "  Psychoan 
alysis,  Sleep  and  Dreams,"  Joseph  Hergesheimer  expects  to 
gather  into  "  The  Meeker  Ritual  "  those  stories  which  attracted 
so  much  attention  when  they  appeared  in  The  Century,  and 
H.  L.  Mencken's  "  In  Defense  of  Women,"  at  present  out  of 
print,  will  be  reissued  —  reset  from  an  entirely  revised  man 
uscript.  Mencken's  "  The  American  Language,"  by  the  way, 
greatly  enlarged,  revised  and  entirely  reset,  will  be  published 
(probably  in  two  large  volumes)  in  the  fall  of  1921. 

Other  books  that  I  expect  to  have  ready  in  the  spring  are 
"  Deadlock,"  the  sixth  volume  in  Dorothy  Richardson's  now 
famous  Pilgrimage  Series,  a  fifth  volume  in  Mencken's  The 
Free  Lance  Books,  "  Democracy  and  the  Will  to  Power,"  by 
James  N.  Wood,  and  a  unique  anthology  of  Devil  Stories  for 
which  the  editor,  Dr.  Maximilian  J.  Rudwin,  formerly  of 
Johns  Hopkins  University,  has  drawn  on  the  literature  of 
many  countries.  Dr.  Rudwin  has  planned  a  series  of  diabol 
ical  anthologies  of  which  this  is  to  be  the  first. 

I  could  go  on,  I  suppose  more  or  less  indefinitely  unfolding 
my  plans  for  the  future  —  they  lay,  didn't  Clarence  Day  say 
earlier  in  this  book,  "  like  onions  on  rafters  "  —  but  one  must 
stop  sometime  and  so  I  will  speak  only  of  two  other  books, 
both  of  them  really  unusual. 

One,  "  In  the  Claws  of  the  Dragon,"  is  a  novel  dealing  with 


POSTSCRIPT  143 

the  marriage  of  an  aristocratic  young  Chinaman  —  one  of  the 
bureaucrats  —  to  a  well-to-do  French  girl.  The  author,  George 
Soulie  de  Morant  is  one  of  the  most  famous  of  French  Sinolo 
gists,  and  his  book  presents  as  well  as  a  fascinating  and  excit 
ing  story,  a  striking  picture  of  life  and  customs  in  the  country 
of  Po-Chui. 

The  other  book,  "  Children  of  No  Man's  Land,"  introduces 
another  young  English  novelist,  G.  B.  Stern.  The  manuscript 
was  sent  to  one  of  my  most  trusted  and  capable  readers. 
Here  is  his  comment:  "This  book  is  the  most  brilliant  and 
perfect  study  that  exists  of  1,  the  ultra-modern  studio  crowd, 
and  2,  the  hyphenate  in  war  time;  and  it  touches  with  wonder 
ful  deftness  a  variety  of  other  matters  —  the  Jews  and  Zion 
ism;  patriotism  and  internationalism;  marriage  and  free  love; 
heredity,  convention  and  revolt."  I  shall  say  no  more,  but  I 
reproduce  here  a  little  sketch  made  by  H.  G.  Wells  after  read 
ing  "  Children  of  No  Man's  Land  "  : 


62,  or  JAMES'S  COURT, 

BUCKIN3HAM   QATC.  S.W.I. 


THIS   BOOK   IS   DUE   ON   THE   LAST   DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


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WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN  THIS  BOOK 
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SEVENTH  DAY  OVI 


L)  LlUK 


u  u 


DUE[jOV3     1969 

NOV  4     REC'D 


Book  Slip-20m-9,'60(B3010s4)458 


222789 


Knopf,  firm,  publishers 
New  York. 
Borzoi  1920. 


KoopF 


Call  Number: 

Zlt73 
K56 


222789 


